Page 106 of The Substitute Fiancée

“Happy New Year, Sam. I wish you a very beautiful artistic year.”

I step closer, my palms damp.

“Actually… I wanted to talk to you. I had a problem over the holidays.”

I explain the ransacking of the apartment, the destroyed canvases, the hours of work torn to shreds. My voice trembles despite myself, but I see it through to the end.

She listens without interrupting. When the silence settles, it’s heavy.

“I’m truly sorry this happened to you,” she says at last. “It’s a hard blow.”

She pauses, then continues, more serious:

“I won’t lie to you. Your file is fragile. Until now, it was your production that carried your work. Without it… I don’t know if a presentation before the jury is appropriate.”

My stomach knots.

“I have four months left. I can produce about twenty works. I also have photos of what was destroyed.”

She slowly shakes her head.

“You know photographs aren’t enough. And twenty-five pieces is below the minimum thirty required.”

The scenario I dreaded comes into focus.

I’m going to fail before I’ve even begun.

“I’ll check with the administration to see whether some accommodations can be arranged, so that the academic review committee can allow you to appear before them in two weeks with photographs of works that no longer exist,” she adds more gently. “But in the meantime, keep working. Don’t stop.”

“Thank you,” I say simply.

It’s not the answer I hoped for. But it’s not a definitive no.

*

The studio gradually fills up. New Year’s wishes are exchanged, kisses on the cheeks too. I try to smile.

“You okay?” Dorian asks as he settles in beside me.

“Yeah.”

A lie.

I sit in front of my blank canvas. Around me, the others get to work. The familiar sounds of pencils, brushes. The smell of turpentine. The winter light, cold and stark.

I draw a first line.

I erase it.

I try again. Nothing comes.

Ms. Mainville stops behind me.

“What matters is starting,” she murmurs softly enough that only I can hear. “It doesn’t matter if you make mistakes. Don’t let panic paralyze you. Failing is already creating.”

I nod and pick up the pencil again. A line appears. It lacks momentum, strength. Nothing like what I was doing before.

Frustration rises, burning.