Page 7 of The Artist's Rival

Taken out of her conversation, Tatiana looks around, irritated to be put on the spot in such an obvious way. She has seen Ellie’s paintings online, but hasn't yet been to see the new exhibition live, which will now sound offensive.

“No, I haven’t been to the gallery…” She shifts her eyes towards Ellie, “but I saw your art elsewhere. I admire it greatly.”

Ellie blinks, seemingly flattered. Tatiana finds that slightly suspicious, since she is already known to be a very successful artist in the city, soon to open another exhibition. False humility tends to quickly annoy Tatiana, especially when everyone at the table has probably been to Ellie’s current exhibition at the gallery.

“I think it’s very… traditional,” she adds, only as she said it realizing it might sound rude.

Apparently, she’s not the only one to notice the ambiguous tone of her compliment. Everyone shifts on their seats, feeling the tense atmosphere rise in the air. Fred delights in it, believing that vigorous disagreements or misunderstandings lead to the most fruitful self-discoveries. He quietly begins collecting the dirty dishes from around the table, making room for dessert. Tatiana pours herself some more wine, slightly embarrassed.

“Hm… I do think I rely on tradition, since landscape paintings have such a rich history,” Ellie gently remarks. “But Tatiana, you also rely on tradition.”

I fucking don’t.

“In what sense?” Tatiana asks, genuinely curious where Ellie is headed.

“Well, in order to subvert the form, you must have first learned its rules—no?”

“I definitely studied landscape painting in art school, but I rejected the romantic tradition, relying rather on my own imagination. Sometimes I paint what I see in nature.”

As soon as she ends the sentence, Tatiana feels very proud of her own straightforwardness, having avoided the convoluted language Ellie seems to like using. The cold rim of the half-full wine glass strokes her lips, as she looks at Ellie’s earrings dangling close to her bare neck. Her lovely bare neck. She takes a pensive sip of wine and the image of her kissing Ellie’s lovely neck flickers unwantedly into her mind.

“I agree that we shouldn’t think of what influences us while we paint,” Ellie states enthusiastically, remembering the lessons her mother taught her, “but while painting, you necessarily use the tools you obtained beforehand. In school or otherwise.”

“I think we strayed far from the original discussion,” Tatiana says, feeling the little drops of wine tingle her teeth. She didn’t like conversations to meander. “You say you’re wary of contemporary art. Did you like my paintings?”

Tatiana notices a growing need in herself to hear Ellie’s honest, raw critique. She’s craving for Ellie to tear her art to shreds or proclaim it prophetic, no matter, she needs this woman’s opinion. Something makes her crave it intensely. Perhaps it is Ellie’s very thinly veiled confidence in her own opinions, perhaps it is the undoubted skill she puts into her own paintings. Tatiana leans in closer over the table to savor each word.

“I…” Ellie hesitates, but decides to continue, “I thought that your use of bold strokes and mismatched colors was captivating. It definitely made me reflect on your—the artist’s—intentions, the reasons for, sometimes, going against the form and painting over it with such disregard.” She nods to Tatiana, encouragingly. “But I also think the majority of your younger audience resonates with your art purely because it is against the grain. Or, not really against the current grain, but against the previous grain—which makes it follow the current one.”

Tatiana, even though waiting for the last sentence to be a punch set up by the kind opening, still feels stung. She looks away, condemning herself for giving Ellie the blessing to be honest and failing to withstand it. What kind of an artist cannot handle honest critique? She rambles in her thoughts, seeing Fred carry dessert on little trays.

“I don’t agree with your approach to art,” Tatiana lashes out suddenly, speaking louder than before. “Not because I want to disregard tradition or because I disagree that certain contemporary art doesn’t carry a lot of merit, but because through such a harsh stance on subverting form, you can easily discourage young, provocative artists.”

Ellie straightens herself up on her chair, visibly touched. No one wants to discourage young artists, and such a harsh accusation certainly merits a harsh response. She thinks, but for too short a time, perhaps.

“I want to direct young artists and make sure their education gives them the tools to express their sensitivity and a critical approach towards art. That means welcoming various points of view, including ones that remain skeptical of some of your work, for example,” Ellie finishes, taking a deep breath.

Tatiana’s face flushes with heat. She wasn’t expecting such a personal argument to unravel, but being a naturally stubborn person, she refuses to let this thread go. The entire table remains quiet, no one daring to interrupt the painters’ discussion. Probably mainly for their own entertainment, feeling a particular sort of infatuation with the emotions playing on the two women’s faces. Fred quietly distributed little plates of tiramisu during the heated exchange, and now both Ellie and Tatiana stare down at their portions, with no appetite left to eat.

“Which work, for example?” Presses Tatiana, having let a few moments pass.

“The swing. I don’t like The Swing. I think that the splash of paint,” Ellie stops for a split second, perhaps realizing that the three glasses of wine did their job, but choosing to continue regardless, “the splash of paint really just destroys the beautiful job you did crafting the hill landscape, even the swing itself is astonishing. So ethereal. And then the splash?—”

“The splash is the swing. It is the essence of the painting,” interrupts Tatiana, wanting to explain in haste, “otherwise it would’ve been just an old, uninteresting landscape. Like some of yours.”

Take that, you uptight opinionated bitch!

Why am I thinking about the lovely way her waist dips below her breasts and then flares out into her hips?

Now the guests gasp, finally realizing they probably should have stopped such a personal argument from escalating. Thomas excuses himself to the bathroom, feeling awkward.

“Alright, alright, girls—” Fred cuts in as the host of the dinner, “we are all artists here, we all employ various techniques, there’s no need to be so harsh to each other. I love both of your work. I wish you both the best,” he continues, trying to remove some steam from the situation, somewhat clumsily. They look at him with friendly disregard.

“I wish Ellie all the best,” Tatiana responds, “I just think that maybe we shouldn’t be putting love letters in galleries.”

Ellie laughs, animated, and her earrings glimmer, again stroking her neck.

Her long elegant pale neck that is begging for my lips on it. Stop it, Tatiana. It has been too long since you got laid. Clearly.

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