Page 90 of Sweet Animosity

Because they didn’t believe sunsets should have hints of pink.

To what end?

What was the purpose of trashing a movie or a book or a restaurant? To warn others, some might say, but again, to what end? What purpose in this world did it serve to tell others that a burger wasn’t to your liking?

The next person who came to the experience with distinct memories of backyard burgers, different tastes, and different emotions tied to their senses, could not possibly share the same view. When one person bit into a burger, they might be disappointed because they missed the slight burnt taste of their father’s grilled burgers from long summer nights in their childhood. While another could bite into that same burger and be taken back to a perfect first date with the person they’d married. But both might miss out on the experience, because a random person on Yelp said it wasn’t worth the trip.

The idea devastated me.

And crippled me.

How was it possible to create something so delicate and imperfect as art, in a world bent on the glorification of perfection and the debasement of those humble servants who tried but failed to meet thousands of uniquely individual expectations?

Was it any wonder I turned to forgery?

Forgery was safe.

The art had already been judged, and society had found it good.

It wasn’t my memories mixed into the pigments of the paints.

It wasn’t my soul.

Forgery was creating art while wearing a suit of armor.

I picked up my pencil, my arm suspended over the canvas.

I thought of Var.

Of the beauty trapped within the violent images and faded ink of his tattoos.

Of the hints of black and green within the deep sapphire of his eyes.

Of how the light reflected off his glossy black hair, making it appear sometimes almost blue.

I thought of the color red in all its passionate and irresponsible forms; crimson, cardinal, rust, ruby, carmine, scarlet, rose, cerise, claret, vermillion.

I thought of how droplets of water create little rainbows, even if that water is piped through an industrial fire suppression system.

How melted vanilla ice cream mixed with strawberry sauce creates a warm pink the same color as a blush.

Then I set the pencil aside.

Fear took hold.

Fear of the inevitable exposure of my heart through my art.

Fear of the beautiful destruction I would paint as thoughts of a brutal man with an arrogant wink and dark sense of humor took hold of all my emotions, memories, and soul.

I reached for my wineglass and drained it.

After returning from the kitchen with another glass of wine, I set aside the fresh blank canvas and picked up the mid-19th century landscape I had worked on before my life went to hell. The piece I was forging was suspected to be an early Thomas Cole, but was not yet proven. That hadn’t stopped a rather disreputable grandfather from losing it in a card game to an even more disreputable character. So the family had turned to me.

I sighed as I placed the painting on the easel with renewed determination not to show the world my own vulnerabilities. I was a forger. It was safer this way.

After collecting my supplies, I juggled them in one arm as I opened the small bedroom window with the other. The change in air pressure caused the bedroom door to slam shut, but I barely noticed. By giving up so easily on trying to create something of my own, I felt like a failure, almost as if I had painted something and then shoved it out into the cruel, negative world to be chewed up and spit out.

Probably because I had this deep fear that each time I gave up, it made the next time that much easier, until eventually I would stop trying.

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