La Douleur Exquise

Yes. I sure trusted one or two hallucinating substances to boost my creativity. It all seemed different whenever I had foreign elements swimming in my blood.

I don’t use ‘different’ as a synonymous of ‘better’.

It all depended on the day, really, which was a good thing, because feeling overly excited and in love with the world usually led me to paint colourful birds and flowers; pretty, but often boring. I enjoyed melancholy. Of course I didn’t enjoy feeling it – that would be worrying and inhuman – but I was incredibly fond of how deep, complex and mesmerizing it got when the human being portrayed it in art. I felt empty and sorrow once in a while, and after smoking a bag of green I’d wake up to over three canvases splashed with figures so tangled I had to stare at them for a few minutes, leaning my head to understand the meaning, failing to remember what was going through my mind when I’d created them.

After inspecting the creation in front of me for some time, deciding it was finished, I took a black sharpie between my dirty fingers and wrote “Blue” on the bottom of the canvas. It was my favourite colour, but I’d hated it for a long time, always resenting my parents for naming me after a crayon. Mum was very sensitive about it, arguing with sadness that the most beautiful things in the world were composed by that colour. “The ocean, the sky and my daughter. But not in that order”, she used to say. Dad never commented much on the topic; I knew he agreed with me but was too afraid to confront her in front of their child.

I stared at my painting again, refusing to give it a title. The only bad thing about painting was having to name my creations. I’d never been good with words, let alone with using them to describe these things. The more beautiful and intense, the more indescribable. Besides, the point of painting was getting to express whatever was on your mind, giving the world a glimpse of the complex and unexplainable thoughts that your brain dealt with. And, to be fairly honest, the reason I often named my art after simple things like “one”, “sky” or “painting” was because I preferred to let everyone make their own interpretation, I wanted people to assimilate each piece without the help of the creator and to give it a meaning based on their own life experiences and perspective.

Olivia was gone for the day. She’d showered that morning after her daily run. I hadn’t joined her this time, too busy trying to rip my hair off at the thought of having less than 24 hours to create a new piece from zero. She’d blown me kisses on her way out to the academy that morning, and I spent the rest of the day with my alcohol, a bunch of untouched canvases (in case I fucked up and needed to start over, which I did, more times than my sanity could handle), all types and shapes of brushes and countless cans of paint.

I managed to cook a meal at seven, assuming she’d come home all tired with sore feet and ready to enlighten me with specific details of her day – how good looking her new instructor was, how annoyed she was by that group of other dancers that didn’t do justice to the choreography, how badly she wished she had been accepted by the American Ballet Theater, and how cool it would be if I joined her for one of her lessons at the Royal Ballet School. Though I had already decided that me in a tutu – she’d swear at me whenever I used that term – and pink shoes with my hair all neat in a bun was an impossible occurrence, I enjoyed listening to her. She was overcritical when it came to ballet, always pushing herself to the limit because she loved it. She loved it and she wanted to be the best at it.

I finished my food and went back to the dinner table. The living room was my office, only because no other area in our humbly small flat had enough space to conceal my materials, and because there was a small window there, which permitted the entrance of the fresh air that I constantly needed to enter my Zen zone.

Underwear and a t-shirt were my favourite attire whilst working (that is a lie, because there was nothing more pleasing than painting without any clothes), but I forced myself to put on black leggings and a white sweater. I needed to be dressed for the occasion.

She was bringing a guy home. That was, now that I think about it, a common occurrence, so I’ll rephrase it: she was bringing a guy home for the sake of spending time with him and introducing him to me (I was the closest thing she had to a family in London, and having me meet her new boyfriend was her version of making it official). She’d talked about him for days; how she’d felt an instant click when they met, how he’d asked her out and kissed her on the first date (in the middle of a party, surrounded by sweaty, dancing bodies and to the rhythm of loud music), and how they were taking things slow but seriously.

Stereotypes were something I avoided. But when she mentioned he was a writer, it was impossible not to mentally associate him with my concept of poetry-lovers: mysterious, unbothered by their physical appearance, observant (very), and fond of alcohol and other fun, heaven-sent substances. There were English/Literature majors in my social circle, and though not all of them fit into my generalised concept, I was confident that he’d have one of those characteristics in him. Olivia didn’t agree.

It didn’t really matter. I knew I wouldn’t see much of him after that night. Olivia was nice; my type of nice, at least. She was honest and challenging and passionate with a rough vocabulary. We had different ways to express ourselves, but our low tolerance for criticism and fakeness had brought us together. I genuinely enjoyed her company. She brought me alcohol whenever I asked her to and made me breakfast when I was hungover, never complaining about the mess and paint drops I left on the furniture during my late night sessions, when my eyes tended to close without permission and my hands lost control of the fresh paint-covered brushes I held.

She was nice, but she wasn’t very exigent when it came to men. She ‘fell in love’ too constantly and had no problem with labeling herself as somebody’s girlfriend after one or two dates. Less than a month ago she’d brought a guy home, introduced him as her boyfriend and fooled me for a second, almost making me believe it would last. They’d held hands 24/7, giggled between kisses and shamelessly let their hands wander on each other’s bodies like teenagers. It ended one week and a half later.

Jealous is definitely not the word to describe how I felt regarding Olivia’s constant interaction with men. I sort of admired her for it; it was impressive how she made space in her agenda for those sorts of things. Me, with my paintings and assignments and exams, I found it unthinkable to dedicate more than one night to a man.

“It’s me!” My thoughts were interrupted when I heard her footsteps, light and not at all loud on the wooden floor – a ballerina thing, I’d come to understand a while ago.

“Hi,” I spoke from the commodity of the sofa, not doing much apart from attentively observing the half-finished canvas that rested on an easel, a few feet away from me, and biting my lip as I considered my next move, so far loving my painting too much to ruin it.

Olivia stood next to the green chair with her hands behind her back and an excited smile, raised eyebrows and all as she stared at me. I noticed a much broader figure standing next to her; it was my cue to stand up.

“Blue, meet Harry. Harry, meet Blue.”

She jumped straight to it, and when I directed my eyes to him, now that I had permission to do so, I understood her excitement. She was happy to prove me wrong. This was actually the first time she had been accurate when physically describing one of her conquers.

He was tall, so tall I had to raise my head more than an inch to look at his face instead of his neck. His eyes were green, but there were small dots of gold and light blue surrounding his pupils. Eyes were the first thing I focused on when meeting a person, hence my immediate observation. They’re the windows to your soul, I’d learned from my mother, and they barely changed through the years.

He attempted a polite smile and kept his gaze on mine, making it clear that he wasn’t the type to look away out of embarrassment or intimidation. For a second I wondered where he’d learned that. If he’d too been taught by his mother that when you don’t look people in the eye you display vulnerability and submission. I mirrored the polite curve of his lips and offered my hand with a warm “hello” in his direction, still focused on the pools of green that his eyelashes selfishly hid from me every two seconds when he blinked.

“Hi.” He shook my hand and let go of it before we both looked back at Olivia, waiting for her to inject in the conversation.

After listening attentively to Olivia’s graphic description of her day, receiving her “good luck with the painting” wishes and giving her a goodnight tap on the bum, I was back in the living room, facing the canvas with my hands on my hips, biting my lower lip again.

It consisted of two hands holding each other tightly, fingers laced together, knuckles pale at the pressure. One of the two hands was swollen, with protuberant veins, alive, nearly exploding. The other one was pale, rough, nearly frozen. Impasto was the technique I’d chosen for it, taking inspiration from Van Gogh, my favourite. It consisted of thick layers of paint, which added the intensity that I wished to transmit.

The walls of our flat were thin and I didn’t complain when I heard noises from Olivia’s room. Whimpers, the sound of slick skin making contact repeatedly, hushed words of encouragement and timid moans followed by silence. I didn’t feel guilty or disgusting admitting this to myself: Olivia and Harry’s encounter had somehow inspired me, and I added various shades of red to the space that surrounded the two hands, highlighting the passion of the story I was trying to tell.

Long ago I’d come to understand that sex and art were immensely linked. Sex and nudity. Understanding the wonder, beauty and sensitivity of the human body was crucial, and learning to observe it and to speak about it openly was necessary if one wanted to create pieces without holding back out of fear or embarrassment.

I took another sip from my bottle of Smirnoff, wincing at the strong taste and shaking my arms as if to let it slide down my veins and to the tips of my fingers. Some 50’s radio station played quietly in the background, the volume set so only I would hear it.

“Hello?”

I jumped slightly at the intrusion and turned around, confused for a moment, almost convinced that I’d been so entranced in my work I was already imagining things. The deep voice came from the dark hall, and it wasn’t until he stepped into the light of the living room that I confirmed I wasn’t that drunk.

“Sorry, I…” his hand went to the back of his neck as he avoided me and stared at my painting. My eyes weren’t on his either, but on the inked art that adorned his body. He was only wearing jeans, out of respect, I guessed. Though I wouldn’t have minded; we painted naked bodies three days a week in class. I was particularly caught up by the detailed butterfly in the middle of his chest, wondering what had motivated him to get it, why he’d chosen that size and why he’d chosen that spot of his skin – I enjoyed playing the role of the spectator from time to time.

I focused on his eyes soon enough to avoid getting caught. As if on cue, he did the same and frowned, signaling Olivia’s room with his finger. “I have some work I need to hand out tomorrow and I don’t wanna wake her, do you mind?” His eyes went to the dinner table, telepathically asking for a spot.

We stared at each other for a couple seconds, repeating the defiance that we’d engaged in when we’d been first introduced, but I wasn’t in it this time. I grew bored and went back to the canvas, feathering the colours with a round brush.

“All right,” I mumbled, already lost in my work.

“Thanks, I’ll be quiet.”

He stayed true to his word, grabbed a seat and placed his things on the table. I spied him with the corner of my eye, realising he wasn’t much different from what I’d thought. He was gripping his pen tightly, writing frenetically – fast, as if he feared losing the ideas that came to his head – on a brown journal, occasionally stopping to organise his thoughts.

I grew tired of spying and my mind went blank as I worked. We stayed in silence, the only noises in the room being the dance of his pen on the paper of his journal and the contact of my brush with the surface of my canvas. I blended some more and stopped, mentally scrutinising the final result but deciding I liked it enough to name it.

“How to say goodbye without leaving.”

“Sorry?”

I’d apparently said the words out loud, because Harry had raised his head and was looking at me apologetically. “Ah, it’s, uh…I just finished this one and I was thinking of a name,” I pointed at the canvas in front of me and his eyebrows knitted together even more.

“I really hope it’s not rude to ask but… what’s the title had to do with…that?” It was my turn to frown and I stared at him for a second, trying to decipher what it was that he didn’t understand.

“See this hand?” I finally said, pointing at the swollen hand on the left side of the canvas, “it’s passionate, it’s holding the other one almost painfully, it’s too content to let go,” I looked back at him to make sure he was following me and he nodded in response, attentively analyzing the image. My finger moved to the right side of the canvas, “now this one, it’s holding her companion, too, it’s holding it tightly, it’s not letting it go, but it doesn’t show emotion at all, it’s frozen and not genuine,” my fingers caressed the surface lightly, barely touching it, and I lost myself in it as I spoke, “it’s staying even though it isn’t happy to be there anymore.”

My eyes went back to my audience. Harry’s frown was gone. His hands looked relaxed, unlike earlier, when he’d been rapidly writing. “You’re good.”

My lips curved up shyly, a reaction I always portrayed when my work was praised. “Thanks,” I allowed myself to grin when I saw him do the same.

“Seriously, I can’t even draw a circle.”

I chuckled and pointed at his journal, “you seem to be good at that.”

Harry’s eyes went to the object in his hands, his mouth forming a shy smile at my compliment.

“I guess so, yeah.”

It was three in the morning and he’d gone back to writing while I attempted to organise the place, severely wishing I could go to bed immediately but wanting to leave it all set for my presentation at 11. When I was finished I took a sip of Smirnoff and looked around, making sure it was all in place. His eyes were on me.

“Want?” I made an attempt to pass him the bottle, but he shook his hand in denial before I could get too close.

“I’ll pass,” my eyebrows sort of raised without my permission at his response and it made him explain, “It’s three in the morning.”

I shrugged and opened my bag, making sure it was packed with everything I’d need during the day. “I’m quite surprised,” I commented carelessly, frowning when I couldn’t find my Van Gogh biography.

“Why’s that?” he questioned.

“I thought you were a writer?”

“And?”

His tone was harsh enough for me to realise this wasn’t small talk anymore. Was he upset? I didn’t really mind. I kept looking for my book, growing worried that I’d forgotten it at a coffee somewhere. “I don’t know, it’s just part of the creative process for everyone I know.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” That did it.

I stopped and turned around, my brows furrowed and a small, incredulous smile formed on my lips as my eyes set on his. “What?”

He shrugged carelessly and moved his hand as he explained himself, “you drink and you feel good and your imagination goes mad,” his eyes went to my painting for a second and then back to mine, “but then you wake up and it’s gone. It’s not really you doing the job, it’s the alcohol in your brain. It’s not a permanent thing, it’s not natural.”

“So if my paintings are any good it’s only because I have a drink before making them?” My voice wasn’t less calm than usual, but my eyebrows were so pulled together it hurt. Harry’s eyes opened at my accusation but his tone stayed calm, too.

“I didn’t say that,” he licked his lower lip and pondered before speaking again, “I think the point is that the less you depend on those things when working, the more of an artist you are. Because then the pieces that you make will be entirely yours. Trust me, I love that thing,” he pointed at the bottle of Smirnoff, his tone less serious, “big fan of that. I get fucked whenever I have the chance; I just avoid it when I’m working.”

My green eyes fixed on his for a few seconds, finally deciding I was too tired to argue with him, his ignorance and nonchalance.

“Inspiring,” I responded, letting out a breath of relief when I found my book under the table.

“Just an opinion. Not my fault you’re offended.”

“I thought writers were supposed to be empathic.”

“You clearly don’t think much.”

My head went up so fast I felt a pain on the back of my neck. All traces of politeness gone as I held my book and let my brows knit together again. “Excuse me?”

Harry’s hand went to his hair, combing it with his fingers and letting out a sigh. “Just…don’t mess with my things and I won’t mess with yours, all right?”

“You’re the one sitting at my dinner table and criticising the way I work.”

He stood up before I finished talking, journal and pen on his left hand, not bothering to be quiet this time and making me cringe when he hastily pushed the chair back in place and it screeched against the floor. Once again he ran his fingers through his hair, slightly pulling at it and then letting his arm fall back to his side as he walked away, disappearing in the darkness of the hall on his way back to Olivia’s room.

“That’s what I thought,” I mumbled to myself, furiously taking a long sip from my bottle and taking the black sharpie to mark the painting with my signature on the bottom.

It was nearly four when I rested my head on the pillow. My eyes closed with relief, pleased with myself for having finished my work and excited for the few hours of sleep I’d earned. It all went away when I thought about the last events. I scoffed in the solitude of my room, wishing for some company to have them listen to my version of the story, to have them agree on what a dick he was. I replayed the short conversation in my head more times than I should, and I winced when I realised I’d sort of fucked up, too. In my defense, he hadn’t been the first person to scrutinise my love for alcohol and what I used it for. It was annoying. I rarely questioned other people’s choices, weren’t they supposed to return the favour?

I ran out of excuses to justify my behaviour. And just like it happened with emotions, feelings and paintings, the frustration and slight anger I felt towards myself when I realised I regretted treating him the way I did was indescribable.