Page 3 of The Artist's Rival

Connie seems disappointed, but nods.

“Alright, get some rest. I’ll talk to you soon, alright?” She turns to go along with the band. “And send me over the new artist, I’ll check them out!” And having said so, she disappears into the crowd.

Tatiana’s way to the exit is marked by constant bumping into cologne-smelling men or the purses of their companions. Once out, the rain hits her brutally. She keeps turning around to look for her car, lost amidst a never-ending sea of others. The unremarkable, silver thing goes unnoticed so easily that it gets on Tatiana’s nerves with a concerning regularity. Each evening out is a hopeless digging through piles of vehicles. She clicks her keys in hopes of hearing the car’s call.

Having finally found it, she feels a wave of gratitude so strong it warms up her whole body, impatient for a shower and some hot soup. Getting inside, her soaking-wet clothes flood the seat, making it cold and disgusting. The weather surely soured the evening, she thinks, driving too fast for the slippery roads, splashing some passersby on accident. They wave at her angrily as she speeds away towards home.

–

As the leftover borscht is warming up in a trusty, metal pot, Tatiana decides to search for information on the mysterious landscape painter. Matthews landscape painting.

The search turns out to be much quicker than she expected. Multiple galleries advertise one Ellie Matthews, shouting out critics’ praise and showcasing the rich tapestry of her portfolio. Looking through the paintings, Tatiana can see how close the subject matter stands to her own work. The landscapes Matthews paints give voice to simple objects enveloped by natural scenery. Little signs of humanity lay scattered amidst lakes and forests, filling the viewer’s chest with something airy, like nostalgia. Childhood memories play around her somber trees, abandoned swings sit still, pensively. In other paintings, the sun bends low to kiss the earthy fields goodnight. The peaceful dance of Sun and Earth seems to go on indefinitely in her paintings, sometimes interrupted by the Moon. The sun seems to be made into a character on its own, tinting the sky into various moods. Matthews certainly values the delicate power of natural light, infusing her paintings with the harmonious power of nature valued so greatly in traditional landscape painting.

Something stirs within Tatiana, as she turns the phone off and walks towards the kitchen counter. The thick steam rising from the soup pot kisses her face. She pours herself a generous bowl and heads to her bed, feeling wrinkled and crumbled like a tormented napkin. Matthews’ landscapes take place in similar states of mind, but her painting uses only very traditional tools. There is no bending of the form, which Tatiana adores so greatly. In her opinion, the paintings are technically good, but don’t seem to ask any thought-provoking questions. In Tatiana’s eyes, they prioritize the aesthetic homage to the artists of the past, which makes her question their value today.

They lack my courage, Tatiana tells herself. They’re an ode to romanticism, not an original notion. She nods, eating spoonfuls of borscht, listening to the storm outside.

Who is this Ellie Matthews, anyway?

2

ELLIE

Ellie Matthews is harshly stirred out of her blissful sleep, woken up by the noise of her alarm clock. Cozy and buried in her bedsheets, she watches as the clock vibrates on its shelf, heading inevitably towards its own undoing. She has no strength to leave the bed, softly ensconced in her baby blue sheets, warm and untouchable, allowing the small disaster to unfold.

The alarm clock falls to the floor with a crash, putting an end to its annoying ring.

Pathetic, it lays on its face. Touched by pity towards the little thing, Ellie finally drags herself out of the bed. The cold, laminated floor stings her feet, and the room’s air seems very unwelcoming. She picks up the cheap clock, the glass cracked from its fall. Now a sense of guilt climbs up her stomach. She decides to treat it as hunger and remedy it by having a fresh breakfast.

Ever since moving to the city, Ellie has been utterly in love with the neighborhood’s bustling morning market, held every Saturday and Sunday in an old hangar only a few streets away from her apartment. Picking out her dress, she can already smell the mountains of produce colorfully stacked inside the old hangar, spices and teas swirling in the air, and fresh-caught fish slid into shopping bags. Keys in her hand, she’s on the way.

–

Strolling around the alleys, Ellie finds herself discreetly people-watching. It always happens to her unintentionally, the short glances gradually lingering longer, turning sticky. Her eyes stick to people from afar, families shopping for the day and relaxing to the beat of a Saturday morning; daughters push little wired shopping carts, sons run around their mothers’ legs, couples embrace each other tenderly.

The tendency to linger and observe has always been present in Ellie’s life. Even as a child, she would often look from a distance—watch, as life displayed its beauty in front of her. No wonder she has always felt drawn to conveying what she saw. Through painting, she could show the beauty back to the world.

An appealing stand with bright red strawberries calls out to her impatiently. As she bends low to smell them, their sweet scent fills her nostrils with a promise of an even sweeter taste. Looking for her wallet, she decides on a fruit breakfast. Baskets of berries and oranges seem irresistible, a small invitation for spring to finally unleash itself. Packing everything into her wicker basket, she whistles a joyful tune.

–

Unpacking the fragrant fruits on her counter, she sets a pot of oatmeal to cook. Ellie commits to preparing her meals with undivided attention, savoring the moment of cooking with joy. In her view, artists especially have the responsibility of experiencing the world richly and attentively, developing a much-needed sensitivity of all the senses. She watches as the steam rises from the pot while cutting apples and peeling oranges. Her cupboard is sure to always be filled with various high-quality spices; a practice she owes to her father. His absolute mastery of the kitchen filled her childhood with joyful hours of cooking together, preparing meals with love and attention. He made sure his daughters would appreciate the flavorful cuisine of his grandfathers, carrying on the numerous recipes and traditions.

Reminiscing, she adds spices to the pot. Nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and honey make her oatmeal divine.

Sitting down to eat, she receives an avalanche of messages from her friend, Frank, apparently very excited: Have you seen her yet??

Ellie opens the attachments, quickly learning of an artist making waves in the city, a modern landscape painter, Tatiana Khan. The surname rings some bells, but Ellie is unsure whether it’s not a coincidence; she doesn’t seem to be familiar with the work. That marks a surprising discovery, seeing the subject matter is so close to her own paintings—or at least, the subject matter used to subvert what Ellie paints.

Khan’s paintings occupy the territory of experimental landscapes, the compositions often unexpectedly erupting with vibrant color unfounded within the context of the space. Looking through the painter’s body of work, Ellie finds a painting particularly similar to one of her own, portraying a little hilltop with a swing, hung from a widely branching tree. She admires the skill of Khan’s background hills, enveloped still by the morning mist. The sun is on its way to rise, timidly gleaming from amidst the still-dark trees. The swing seems recently abandoned, in the middle of its course. To portray its motion, Khan decided to abandon the painting’s classical form and dash thick white paint atop it, marking the swing’s trajectory. This work angers Ellie, who can already imagine the shallow praise it probably received. Critics would gasp over the meaningful boldness of subverting such a beautiful form.

Ellie keeps looking, other paintings employ different tools but with the same bold disregard. She realizes the emotions conveyed through Khan’s art relate deeply to the sentiments of her own work, often portraying abandoned spaces or landscapes including minuscule traces of humanity. Only Ellie’s work employs subtlety and doesn’t look to disregard the form where it is unnecessary. Looking to find Khan’s age, her suspicions stand confirmed; Tatiana is ten years her junior.

How do you like it? She asks Frank. He is a painter of his own renown, and his reflections on art never fail to remain on point.

A creeping distaste haunts Ellie. She doesn’t understand why Khan’s paintings would garner such recognition when, clearly, they’re only meant to be aggressively postmodern.

I think she manages the concept well, the paintings are touching. It’s not my style, but she’s clearly very skilled.

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