Page 4 of The Artist's Rival

Frank’s response doesn’t settle any of Ellie’s feelings. Having finished the bowl of oatmeal, she busies herself with doing the dishes until the phone’s ringing interrupts her.

“Did you forget about our call?” the familiar, sunny voice flows through the speaker.

“Hi Mom, I completely forgot today’s Saturday,” Ellie explains, happy to hear her mother.

“How are you doing, dear? Everything going well with the exhibition?”

“Yes, I’m opening a new one soon,” her voice beams with pride. “I have a question?—”

Ellie stirs a bit. Her mother’s opinions on art still carry a lot of importance for her.

“Do you recognize this new painter, Tatiana Khan?” Ellie pauses. “She seems to be gaining a lot of recognition here recently, and she also does landscapes.”

“Tatiana Khan… No, not really. But you know, I’m not as up to date as I used to be, these days.” She pauses to think some more. “Is she related to Dominik Khan, by any chance?”

“I don’t know. Who’s that?”

“Oh, a very successful sculptor of my generation. Our paths never crossed, but I heard a great deal about him.”

And so their weekly conversation would run its course, little waves of insignificant details from their daily lives, opinions on recently read books, art exhibitions, news about friends.

“I’m thinking of creating something new, I have these images following me around recently. I think it could be beautiful,” admits Ellie.

“Don’t tell me anything!” laughs her mother. “It brings bad luck to talk about unmade art. Go and paint,” she advises. “Go and paint it.”

“Well, now I just might.” Ellie shakes her head to herself, always entertained by her mom’s superstitions. “Say hi to Dad for me, will you?”

“Sure. He’ll be visiting soon.”

After hanging up, a sense of familiar gloom overcomes Ellie. The warmth of her mother’s voice seemed more tinted with pain than the last time they talked, words took on different shapes in her mouth than usual. The conversations keep getting harder for her, a pulsing reminder of her absence from her family’s life and struggles. Though the doctors keep reassuring the family of high chances for recovery, Ellie still feels discomfort being so far away from them during the difficult time. The only way for her to justify not taking care of her mother in person is to make her art career worth every minute away from her hometown.

With thoughts of recent successes swimming around her mind, Ellie takes her mother’s advice and decides to get working on her recent vision.

Driving to the newly rented studio, she focuses on the images she has been stumbling into. Images of cascading water, bathed by the dusking sun. She wonders whether it somehow corresponds to the fear for her mother, subconsciously gushing out into her art. She shakes her head to drive the thought away.

Ellie’s mother holds a strong conviction that one should never analyze one’s own art, only leave it to the audience and the critics. Whenever Ellie would begin guessing what the elements of her paintings could mean, her mother would interrupt, believing that creation and analysis do not belong to the same process. The artist’s task is to create raw and honest art. The water would cascade.

Ellie parks and gets out the keys to her studio. She still is barely able to believe the success her art has recently achieved, affording her a spacious apartment together with a spacious studio, something she has been dreaming about since leaving art school. The key shines in her hand, as she climbs the stairs.

Once the door stands open, she inhales the strong smell of acrylic paint and feels at home. The bright space embraces her with light, and she gets her materials ready to sketch. While working, she notices that the mood of the painting will vary drastically from her usual, more melancholy, state. The waterfall seems to require grandeur, and together with the dying sun, the painting seems to rage. She sees the water below rippling, struck by the continuous flow from above, heavy and unforgiving. Hills stand bare, birthing this falling water, shining with the red reflections of dusk. The sketch has no color, but she can see exactly where the red should lick the painting.

Taking a break, she stands up to look at the sketch from afar. The style of the piece resembles more the work she used to create a few years ago, making her question the inspiration, despite her mother’s words. Her stomach rumbles, and she decides to take a break for lunch.

Hey Fred, are you in the city? She texts, changing from her work clothes back to her dress. Fred owns a studio a few streets away, so they often eat out together.

Getting a sandwich, wanna join?

Walking to the sandwich shop, Ellie can’t let go of the surprising nature of her new project. Fred is known to shift his style aggressively and often, and she knows that he will be quick to belittle her confusion. The friends hug upon seeing each other.

“Ellie! How’s it going?” Fred exclaims in between enormous bites of his salmon sandwich.

“I began working on something,” Ellie begins, going over the menu trying to decide between vegetables and tuna, “and the project really surprises me.”

Having chosen the eggplant grand sandwich, she sits down to join Fred at the table.

“Tell me more,” he says.

“You know my recent pieces, I thought I finally found my style and a consistent voice,” she explains, “but this… It’s been haunting me for weeks, and once I finally begin sketching, it seems completely different from all my recent work. Very… aggressive.”

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