Page 67 of Painting Celia

“I’m at work, hon,” Kelsey said when she called. “But the shop is super dead today. Come down. I’ll pretend to sell you clothes, and we can chat.”

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León had asked to be dropped off downtown, homing to the urban center that would feel familiar. It didn’t, though. LA buildings were blocks long, the reflected heat arid, sidewalks deserted amid streams of anonymous cars. A tropical ghost town.

Whatever. He walked as he used to in New York.

His best painting was an accident. Celia had shown him something he didn’t know he felt and hadn’t recognized even as he painted.

This image of vulnerability and threat came from inside him, and if he was painting blindly, he had to confront himself. He couldn’t keep finishing work without knowing why it did or didn’t speak.

What was the threat?

Long stretches of pavement passed under his feet, fenced parking lots herding him down straight streets.

He missed New York. LA was alien, the streets punctuated with palm trees so tall that their feather-duster tops receded as afterthoughts. Up at Celia’s was worse, isolated from even her neighbors, a long drive away from anything. He missed his parents and sisters, cousins and friends and crowds. Was that what was throwing him off?

No, he’d had the same trouble there at the end. He was the problem.

What was he afraid of?

He was afraid of not being able to paint. Well, what if he couldn’t? What else would he do? Who would he be?

He’d be nothing. Painting was his whole identity. Without it, he’d be absolutely nothing.

The sharp pang in his heart told him he’d found the threat.

It made no sense. He’d just done outstanding work and should feel encouraged. He could show himself, his parents, and the world that he could succeed at this.

Dad had worked two jobs to pay for his art school. His parents had sacrificed their days and their own hopes, all to improve their children’s opportunities. He had to prove it had been worth it.

He couldn’t sacrifice too. He couldn’t compromise. He couldn’t let anything distract him.

He reached a wide intersection, a confluence of estranged air-conditioned cars with tinted windows closed. A bodega beckoned halfway down the block to his right, but he stubbornly chose to cross the street.

Was Celia a distraction or a mirror? God forbid, a muse? León tucked a sweaty lock of hair behind his ear. That woman.

Why her?

She inspired him, no question. He itched to paint her again right now—he had urgent colorful plans. What was it about her? Did they share even one thing in common?

A wide concrete gully yawned under León’s straight sidewalk, now a bridge. A laughable trickle of water braided down the middle. They called this a river? It was no Hudson.

Celia kept painting bridges, but not well. She’d have to move on to the next item on her art list. She wouldn’t like that.

They had that in common, actually. Looming failure.

He winced.

She didn’t even have art to turn to. No wonder she was so wan, drifting quietly through life.

They didn’t have any choice here. He had to create well, and here she was to show him the paintings inside him. She wanted a purpose, and here he was, helping her make the art she couldn’t. They had to keep going, paint and pose, or come to nothing.

She’d shown him that in the blue painting. They were both vulnerable.

A vibrant mural on a building ahead came into view. They did that right here, the colors reaching up three stories.

He surrendered to the obvious conclusion. Celia was his destination. Dammit, call her what she was. His muse. He’d have to delve much deeper into her truths and humbly admit how they applied to him. He just had to convince her, which wouldn’t be easy after running away.

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