Even After Everything

I get back home at just about the end of my last nerve.

I may have mentioned this already, but my idyllic home in the middle of the country side is slap bang next to a dairy factory - workplace of all the perverts and dicks of the area. So imagine it if you will, a filthy, soaking wet girl traipsing down past said dairy factory, at around half five - just the time every clocks off work.

I was jeered at, wolf whistled to and laughed at all the way home. Cars even slowed down to show me how amused they were. See?

Maybe Charlotte was right about about me PMSing. Bitch.

One I get home, I dig out the number of my singing tutor and tap it into my phone, holding it up to my ear as the dial tone sounds. After a few rings, she picks up.

‘Hello, Patricia Cornell speaking.’

‘Hi Ms Cornell - it’s Hannah. I was just calling to let you know about the song I’m doing for Saturday.’

‘Oh super. What’ll it be then?’

‘Um…well…’

Shit. I actually hadn’t thought about it. Why did I ring again?

‘You have decided, haven’t you? Roger and I have to get the discs submitted within two days.’

‘Oh - uh, well-’

‘What about your contralto piece? The one by that band?’

‘Everything We Had?’

‘That’s the one. Not too high so you can show off a bit of that power - but not safe enough to be boring. It shows off your voice well.’

‘Well, if you think so-’

‘Wonderful, I’ll tell Roger right away. Well I have to go and finish some paperwork now, but thanks for calling. I’ll see you on Saturday.’

‘Bye Ms Cornell,’ I stammer. I’m suddenly apprehensive - I haven’t actually performed that song in front of more than two people before. And even then it was a while back. What if I totally butcher it?

That would be like…like blaspheming.

I shudder and push back the covers of my bed and climbing in, fully clothed, even though it’s only little past six o’clock. Though I can’t remember the last time I did this, it feels so familiar that I smile in spite of myself, closing my eyes and falling asleep.

If there’s one thing I will ever say so many times that it becomes default, it would be something to do with waking up early in the morning. There’s nothing worse, unless of course you went to bed just as early. Then it’s…strange.

We used to go on family holidays to France way back before we got the dogs, and you’d wake up to this wonderful smell - sort of grass and dew, and sunshine and baked dough. And that’s exactly the smell I’m hit with this morning as I push down the seat of the toilet and empty my bladder. It’s so reminiscent of those times that it puts me in this super mood, despite the date of the recital looming towards me.

Grinning, I walk through to the study and flick on the computer, waiting for it to load up. When it finally comes onto the home screen, I open up My Pictures, and print off one of my favorites in black and white. It’s William Beckett - possibly the most common one there is, but I still love it.

Taking it back up stairs, I pull out my canvas roll, cutting off an A3 size sheet and pushing it back under my bed. I take a seat on the floor.

Roughly at first, I begin sketching - facial structure and feature positions, hacking out sharp lines for eyebrows, mouth and nose. Then gradually, I start softening out the lines, widening the nostrils, drawing out the different shaded areas for me to paint over later.

I couldn’t tell you how long I just sit there and draw, scrubbing over and over at his eyes with a rubber, perfecting his mouth until it’s carved into that beautiful half smile. When I’m finally done, I observe my efforts and smile. I’m no great artist, so I consider it a huge achievement when a portrait actually looks like the person it is.

Getting up and stretching my legs, I pick my acrylic set up out of my wardrobe. It was bought for me for my birthday by my parents, and so consequently is probably not of very good quality - but hey, it works for me.

I don’t mean to make my parents sound tight [though they are], but people who don’t paint themselves often mistake lots of paints for good paints. You’ll remember I said that one day - whether it’s when you find your Titanium White all dried up and lumpy, or when you’re considering buying a paint set for your own children.

I squeeze out the smallest blob of black onto each section of my paint palette, and then a larger blob of white, before mixing each to an individual shade of grey. Dipping my brush back into the solid black, I get to work.

People often say to start with the lightest colours, because if you make a mistake, you can go over it. I always start with black though. It gives me a base on which to paint, separating the areas in which to shade - besides, once I paint the darkest parts black, I can see the face on the page before me. It motivates me to carry on.

As it’s growing dark outside, I wash my brush, screwing the lids back onto the paints and closing the acrylic set. I scrutinize my finished master piece.

Though you could tell it’s him, I’d drawn the face too long, and I’ve failed to capture that look in his eyes. That tantalizing look with one eyebrow gently arched, and one corner of his mouth curling up into the merest suggestion of a smile. I drop it onto my desk frustrated.

I hate not getting things right. It’s why I don’t draw all that much. The sunny mood that had descended upon me this morning has now thoroughly vanished as I slump on my bed again. It bothers me that I can’t make the picture as perfect as he is - I don’t even want to look at it.

I close my eyes and fail to get to sleep for the longest time, before I finally cave - jamming my IPod earphones into my ears. Listening to the song I would eventually sing in front of hundreds of people, I drift into an uneasy sleep, still desperately trying to work out where in my painting I had gone wrong.