Page 12 of Painting Celia

His head turned at her voice, his gaze flickering down her bare legs and back up so quickly that she almost missed it.

“Can I watch you paint?”

“Sure,” he smiled. “Not back there, though. I don’t want to keep looking behind me. Come up here where I can see you.” He pointed to the side with a foot, much nearer but where she could still see the canvas.

As she dragged the lounge closer, he set up. Easel, canvas, paints, palette. She sank onto the cushion to sit cross-legged.

León had timed his return well. The late afternoon light was turning golden, blue shadows stretching away from the city view. The harsher orange rays had all but faded, dusk approaching, the light from the pool and city starting to rival the sunset.

Celia kept her eyes on his gold-washed form, eager to see real art being made.

He ducked into the shadow of the canvas, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an elastic band. As he gathered his black hair to tie back, his eyes raised to her, looking up through his lashes.

He was sort of cute, in a scruffy way.

León’s expressions weren’t hard to read. He pursed his lips slightly, one eyebrow just barely raising. She was being perused, judged. Not in a mean way, but his eye contact was always too direct. Sitting motionless was the only response that came to her, the one that always came to her.

He finished tying his hair, gave her a little nod, and turned back to his canvas. Then he stopped and closed his eyes, a change washing over him. He went quiet, his face relaxed. He actually became still.

Celia held her breath with him.

Then he exhaled, opened his eyes, and began brushing colors on the bare white canvas.

What had that been, that stopping and being quiet? Was it something she could do when trying to make things? Was he just clearing his mind or meditating or—

“No questions?” he asked, glancing at her before looking at the view again.

She stifled a snort. She had so many questions that she couldn’t dredge one to the surface, like her tongue was stuck in mud.

He’d stopped looking at her, concentrating on his colors.

Um. “How long will this take you?”

León swept a pool of robin’s egg blue across the bottom of the canvas. “Depends on how long it takes to figure out what the painting is about.”

About? “Isn’t it about the sunset? The skyline?”

“It’s inspired by the view,” he said, peering closely at various oranges on his palette, “but the painting isn’t about the landscape. It’s a story.”

“What story?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m finding out.” He held up his brush to her, amber paint on its bristles like a miniature torch. “These colors are the process. They tell me as I go.”

She shook her head. “What does that mean?”

He turned back to paint as he talked. “So, abstract art—all art really, but abstract for sure—is about truth. It could be ‘here’s a flower,’ or it could be more.” His motions were quick but practiced. Soothing to watch.

Why was this new to her? She’d checked painting off her list after taking the still life class but hadn’t taken other styles into account. Maybe abstract painting was different. Maybe she’d try it.

“Maybe,” she ventured, “a flower could be dangerous. Poisonous.”

He didn’t turn to look, focused on the colors going onto canvas. “It could be. But is that a story?”

“What if you….” This was hard. She’d always had trouble deciding what to draw. “What if something was dying under it?” She saw him wince silently, briefly. “I know, it’s cliché. I can understand showing conflict in a still image, but how would you show what came next? The resolution?”

“That’s where truth comes in. The painting tells that on its own.”

“But how?”

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