Page 8 of The Artist's Rival

Tatiana turns her eyes away not to stare.

“Even if my art were a love letter to romanticism—which it is not—I think that putting love letters in galleries would be very much in the vein of contemporary art. I bet someone has done that already.”

“You have so much potential and you refuse to channel it into something more creative, you refuse to let your work flow. It feels rigid. It feels contained,” says Tatiana defiantly, getting up from her chair. “That’s all I think.”

“I’m almost forty,” Ellie reminds her. “I have explored my potential well up to this point, I think. There is excellence to be found in something rigid. Like ballet.”

“You know what—” Tatiana looks straight at Ellie, “I’ll just go. I’m tired and I’ve had enough wine.”

She makes her way to Fred, leaning in to say goodbye.

“Fred, thanks a lot for the invitation, I’m sorry about this.” She makes an ambiguous gesture with her hands. “I left you a wine bottle in the corridor, I forgot.”

“Don’t worry,” Fred laughs, walking her to the hallway. “Are you sure you can drive, though?”

She stops, one arm in her coat, remembering that she drove here in her car.

“Shit. Can I leave it here for now?” Her eyes bat apologetically, knowing fully well that Fred has more than enough space to keep it.

“Pfft, sure. Don’t get so heated with Ellie, please.” Fred’s tone changes to one that sounds very earnest, almost caring. “She treats her art very seriously, like all of us, but on top of that she can be very insecure.”

Tatiana shakes her head, amused. There was not a tinge of insecurity in what she saw.

“Doesn’t seem so to me, for sure,” she remarks dismissively, buttoning up her coat.

“I’m serious,” Fred picks up the purse that slid down Tatiana’s shoulder. Ready to go, she gets back to the dining room to say goodbye to the sitting group.

“Bye everyone, I got very tired, as you could see?—”

Kind laughter erupts around the table, omitting only Ellie. She nods at Tatiana, and possibly neither of them knows what it is supposed to mean.

“See you around!” Tatiana exclaims, trying to counter the still lingering unpleasant mood. Once out of the door, she breathes more easily.

–

Gentle taps of scarce raindrops hit the cab’s roof. Tatiana sits in the backseat, reflecting on the afternoon, and with time, the waves of anger fade out from her chest. She catches sharp notes of disappointment playing around her thoughts; she was thinking that maybe the dinner would convince her to open herself up to Ellie’s art. Instead, it only served to further their differences. Ellie’s self-assured tone still rang about Tatiana’s ears, causing a mixture of disapproval and a strange sense of inferiority she hadn’t felt since college. Ellie, in Tatiana’s mind, sounded almost cruel. Watching the cars go by and the rain grow thicker, she keeps circling back to the tinge of hope she felt when she thought that Ellie could approve of her paintings. Perhaps something of that beauty, contained in between her delicate pale skin and her golden jewelry and hair, could have seeped into Ellie’s opinions. The softness of her voice would perhaps make them tender and understanding. But it didn’t. Instead, Tatiana was left bitter and curled on the cab’s backseat, watching the promising spring weather of the day wash away, while thoughts of fucking Ellie Matthews until she shut up her stupid opinions flashing insistently through her head.

4

ELLIE

Having said all her goodbyes and hugged all of her newly acquired friends—even Marceline, for by the end of the evening, they made peace—Ellie spilled out of the house onto the rain-showered streets. She had taken a bus to Fred’s but feeling the rain-freshened air bloom in her lungs, she decides to walk back home. Her mind feels swollen with thoughts and remnants of alcohol, but each step replenishes her clarity of thought, lifting her spirits up as well. For now, she refuses to think, only taking deep breaths, knowing that the avalanche of reflections will befall her soon enough.

Somewhere in the middle of the way, she remembers Tatiana Khan’s shattered expression upon hearing the blunt criticism of The Swing, blown out of proportion. The image of Tatiana’s muddy-brown eyes looking from across the table with disappointment and hurt stirs something within Ellie, maybe even regret.

Tatiana had been much more attractive than Ellie had imagined. Her shimmering red hair had made Ellie want to capture it on canvas, it was like no color she had ever seen before.

She shakes her head to reject the image, reminding herself that she only spoke her mind. Artists should be able to handle critique, she keeps reminding herself, jumping over puddles of water like a little child. The streets observe her with a quiet emptiness.

And Tatiana might have been beautiful, but she was still an arrogant pain in the ass.

The truth is, Ellie really dislikes the bolder paintings of Tatiana Khan. What surprised her during the argument, however, was Tatiana’s insistence on Ellie’s unoriginality. She has, naturally, heard before that her paintings weren’t exciting, but that is a sentiment commonly encountered by landscape artists.

Nonetheless, she has always thought that her paintings remained imbued with a tenderness and sensitivity, especially open to be perceived by other artists. Now, she almost feels betrayed. The silence around the two didn’t help either, making Ellie think that the others agreed with Tatiana’s point. To shake away the irritating thoughts, she decides to stop by a particularly inviting perfume store and buy herself a beautifully smelling treat.

“What scents do you prefer, Ma’am?” The bored saleswoman is quick to jump from her desk, seeing Ellie enter.

“Something fresh. Citrusy, for sure,” Ellie smiles, eyeing the little bottles.

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