Page 16 of The Artist's Rival

“Now you’ll get what you deserve.”

Oh my god…

She shakes her head, attempting to focus instead on her art, but to no avail. Last night is begging, low on its knees, to be touched. Tatiana runs her hand through her disarrayed hair, gazing blankly at the half-filled canvas. It’s the sketch she made some time ago coming to life as a painting, the river banks filled by gentle colors stand ready as background, waiting to be completed. The longer Tatiana looks at her work, the more accusatory its glance appears. It is a dead thing looking back at her.

Feeling in no reasonable headspace to create, she gets up to make some coffee, dragging herself towards the kitchen. Opening the fridge, however, she realizes she hasn’t bought any milk, having to abandon the idea—black coffee depresses her spirits. Resigned, she reaches for her phone, always a delectable distraction from any worry. Something nudges her to give Ellie’s new exhibition another look, even though the subject clamors in her mind with a pulsing, swollen nervousness. She caves in.

Looking through the gallery of the event, she slowly sinks into herself. The paintings she scorned so much are not half as bad as she remembers them to be. Their somber ambience calls to the viewer with a siren-like appeal, well fitting for a dream landscape. Tatiana knits her eyebrows together, thoroughly searching for the reason for her aggravated state last night. Her opinions wriggle like live fish caught in the net of inconsistency, struggling and squirming to stay alive, confronted with the harshness of breathing. She desperately doesn’t want to admit her mistake, even to herself, yet she cannot find many conceptual or technical faults within Ellie’s numerous paintings. Their only possible flaw could be blandness, perhaps. But she doesn’t want to go down that road, leading to nowhere. She turns the phone off, bitter.

The lack of milk upsets her but craving something cozy, she settles for milk-less tea. Waiting for the water to boil, the images of last night show up. They come in bursts, little fireworks of memories plaguing her mind. Ellie’s soft voice rings in her ears, restless and menacing.

“Come now for me, Tatiana.”

Tatiana doesn’t want to think about what they did, and feeling hopelessly tangled up in her thoughts, she decides to reach out to an old friend. They were supposed to reconnect for a long time now, but each having their own constant professional hurdles to jump over, neither made the time to reach out.

“Marcel?” she says into the phone, hope dancing around her voice.

“Hey! Haven’t heard from you in a long time!” He sounds sunny like usual, making Tatiana feel warmly embraced.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Tatiana admits, “I was hoping we could go swimming tonight?”

–

Having made the evening plans, she sits down to face her stubborn canvas once more. The perspective of cutting through the cold swimming pool water slowly relaxes her nerves, knowing that relief will come soon.

She picks up her brush, feeling ready to advance the painting. Thin webs of sketches lay covered by paint, here and there still showing their little dark veins. Tatiana came to like the river she created, its stormy water has a delicate quality to it, almost feminine. A woman whose thoughts seem to storm, she sings to herself, thinking over the next strokes of paint. Little spirits of abandoned clothes soon populate the wind-dragged grass, stretching out their sleeves and legs. Proud of the flow of her work, Tatiana notices an unusual-for-her softness in all this, her brush blurs the harsh borders of color, giving the painting a new, impressionistic quality. She sits back, perplexed, and a new thought begins to creep around her mind. Shadows of premonition tingle her eyes, recognizing Ellie’s style. Scornful, she gets away from the painting, having to begin preparing for her outing either way.

She looks around her disheveled bedroom for the swimsuit she stashed away somewhere a long time ago, coming back from some trip or other. The old love for swimming begins flowing through her veins anew, excitement lightening her step. She hasn’t gone out to swim with Marcel in what seems like ages, since both their careers began picking up pace.

The doorbell rings, just as she manages to dig the swimsuit out from underneath her bed.

–

“Like the old days,” says Marcel, showing Tatiana to his car.

He came to pick her up to celebrate the tradition, even though these days Tatiana owns a car. She smiles, proud of how far they both managed to come.

“Like the old days,” she repeats, getting inside.

The way to their favorite pool is only around ten minutes by car, but the road is made torturous by constant renovations, turning it into a never-ending building site. Dust and sand stick to wheels, and the traffic moves astonishingly slow.

“What a joke,” sighs Tatiana.

“You never were a very patient person.” Marcel shakes his head. “By the way, what prompted the call?”

“Well, first because I really missed you,” Tatiana hangs her voice on the prolonged last syllable, stretching it out to make Marcel laugh.

“Yeah, sure. And for real?” He looks to her for a moment, turning away from the road. “Missed you too, by the way. We should’ve met up sooner.”

“Cute,” she grins. “No, but you’re right. There was a reason; I feel very confused as of late. I need a good swim,” she admits.

Marcel nods, knowing the curing potential of immersing oneself wholly in water. There is a mind-soothing quality to swimming, an almost purifying component that he often benefits from as a transgressive artist. His great influence is the art of Robert Mapplethorpe, and the heavy subject manner makes him seek out comfort frequently.

“It’s kind of like a womb, no?” He thinks out loud, making Tatiana giggle.

“Maybe. But wombs are cozy and warm. The swimming pool is freezing. Uninviting. Maybe it’s the freshness that makes your blood flow differently through your brain?”

The debate rolls until they arrive at the pool, with no clear winner.

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