Page 14 of The Artist's Rival

Why was fucking her so satisfying? Fucking her contempt for my art out of her. Opening her up to take all of me. Hearing her moan for me, cry for me, come for me.

Then leaving her, wet and spent in a bathroom cubicle.

Her pussy felt so good around my hand.

Stop it, Ellie. It was a mistake.

Finishing up, she looks out the window, let down by having to take out her woolen sweater again. Those days were supposed to be past already, their cold and grey attitude affects Ellie, and also means worse light in her studio. Not wanting to work under artificial light, she has been particularly excited for the sunny days, the paintings she can create, inspired by the spring.

She gets in her car, even though recently she has been feeling a strange aversion towards driving. Behind the wheel, every thought seems to be able to sleaze around her mind infinitely; memories, dreams, and fragments of conversations stumble in and out of her train of thought. She can’t wait to talk to her father, who always manages to take her thoughts into his gentle palms and straighten them out. He’s always been able to do that, throughout her teenage years especially. Years wrought with confusion and getting constantly lost, figuring out her own identity. When she said she might like women, he was the most supportive person in her life, together with her mother.

She had been lucky.

–

It's not a bad gallery, she admits, on her arrival. She has been here before, five or six years ago, to see another rising artist. His linoleum art made a true impression on her back then, unfortunately his career came to a halt, and she didn’t hear much about him afterwards. Leaving her coat in the cloakroom, she enters the space currently empty of visitors except herself. Sustaining herself purely as an artist, she likes the freedom to move around the city when most people are at work.

The paintings exhibited here vary in style; she can see that Tatiana’s earlier paintings are hung around the walls, as well as the most recent ones. There remains a common thread of splashing vibrances, jarring colors clashing or mingling with each other against the backdrop of landscapes, sometimes incorporated into them, though rarely. Tatiana’s earlier work seems less coherent, though Ellie finds a particularly interesting painting.

Below stormy clouds, mingled with the sea appear pools and boiling splashes of bold, red blood, storming together with the forces of nature. Lightning bolts spin their thin white scars along the dark sky, and looking at it, Ellie can almost hear the thunder. Apocalyptic though it is, Ellie is entirely captivated by the pure emotion of the piece, as well as its skillful execution. It’s called Sacrifice and was painted four years ago.

Ellie stands there, transfixed by the painting. She could easily admit it to be Tatiana’s best work, so different from what she focuses on creating now. The blood seems well incorporated into the piece, in theory taking place within it, even though appearing mythically out of the realm of the storm. She looks at other paintings, disapproving of some, and admitting that others are not as bad. Looking at the time she hurries to the cloakroom, not wanting to be late for her meeting.

Sacrifice stays with Ellie the whole way back, down the galleries numerous steps, on the way to her car, and driving to the coffee shop. She feels curiosity rise within her; what inspired such a raw and unsettling painting? She feels that Tatiana could be better than she is, if she would rely less on the boldness of her pieces alone. The ones placed within the soft realm of ambiguity, in Ellie’s opinion, are the ones which leave the most impact on the viewer, allowing one to dive into the piece entirely.

Once out of the car, she notices her father standing on the pavement in front of the coffee shop, smoking a pipe. A nasty old habit, he used to say, wanting to discourage his daughters from smoking.

“Dad!” She waves to him, almost brought to tears by how much older he looks now. His fragile frame stands engulfed in an old tweed jacket, and his dark complexion contrasts more and more sharply with the silver devouring his rich curls. She still has a little picture of him in her wallet from the time she was twenty, departing for college.

“Ellie, sweetheart!” He smiles wide, embracing her in his arms. “How’re you doing?”

“Lots to talk about,” she admits, leading him into the lively coffee shop.

They order and sit down by the window, beaming with joy to see each other again. Ellie sets her bag on the floor and having heard all the medical updates about her mother, sighs heavily.

“She’s going to be alright, really,” her father says, trying to cheer her up. “The doctors are very hopeful.”

“I know, I know.” Ellie nods. “She’s a strong woman.”

Their coffee arrives, steaming and milky.

“But tell me something about how you’re doing,” he urges.

Ellie takes her cup and decides to talk about her stormy feelings about Tatiana’s art, omitting the bathroom incident, naturally.

Why did fucking her feel so good?

–

“So the way I see it,” says Ellie’s father, having listened to the story, “both of you dislike something about one another. One another’s art,” he corrects. “But maybe, it’s really a different feeling.”

“Like what?” Ellie leans in, always eager to listen to advice.

“I don’t know. Envy, jealousy. You name it.” Her father takes a long sip from his steaming cup, not a single trace of rush in his movements.

“I just think she’s wasting the potential she has,” Ellie continued, “I saw some other paintings of hers today, and one in particular… I really think it would be good for her to reflect more on her style, is all.”

“So you like her?” He laughs, entertained. “You want to help her.”

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