Page 47 of Dark Ink

A startled silence fell over the room darkened by a late afternoon storm as I stalked to the podium. There was the rustling of papers, the scooting in of a chair or two, a last whisper here and there. Then there was only the sound of barren tree limbs scraping against the windows.

I managed to keep my breathing under control as I slung my satchel to the floor. As I arranged my lecture, three pieces of loose paper covered in gouging, frantic scribbles. I looked up to find the class with pens poised, fingers waiting on keys.

I managed to keep my rage under control up until the moment that I laid eyes on her.

Again in the back row, farthest from me, hidden in shadows. She sat in the desk nearest the rear exit door. Ready to escape. Ready to run. Ready to disappear from sight again. Her eyes were hidden in shadows, but I imagined the glare in them, I felt it. Her lips painted in a deep purple line. From this distance I couldn’t tell whether she was breathing or not. Whether she was panting like me, ready to fight, ready to win. She was out of my reach. But I knew she could hear me. And I was determined that she would fucking hear me.

Eithne thought she had a stranglehold on angry. On indignant. On “right”. She had another feckin’ thing coming.

“Today I want to discuss the people in an artist’s life,” I began, no longer needing the reminder of my notes. “The people in your life.”

My gaze was fixed on her. No one in the class seemed to notice as chins tucked to chests, eyes trailed across their lined notepads, fingers found the letters on the keyboard: P - E - O - P - L - E.

“Why put care into the brush you select for a painting? Why anguish over the quality of a gouache? Why spend a month’s rent on a set of watercolours? Or worry over how perfectly a canvas is stretched over a frame?” I said as I gripped the edges of the lectern, as I leaned forward, speaking to her—speaking just to her. “Why do any of that if you don’t use any of that discernment, that high standard, that obsessive selecting for the people in your life?”

The sounds of frantic note taking faded. I had the sense that Eithne and I were alone in the lecture hall growing darker and darker by the minute.

“Because if you think a cheap brush will ruin your work, you have no fucking clue what a blood sucker, time sucker, money, heart and soul sucker will do,” I said, voice rising in volume as I grew madder. More indignant. More sure that I was fucking right.

And she was fucking wrong.

“An artist,” I said to her, to her and no one else, “an artist must be very careful of the influences she lets into her life. Of the artists she emulates. Of the styles she takes to heart. Of the professors she listens to. Or doesn’t listen to. Yes, I know, you’ll argue that it only applies to the ‘art world’? That this ends at the gates of the college?”

Everyone jumped when I suddenly banged my fist against the lectern.

“You’re wrong,” I said. And I was talking to Eithne. The subtle narrowing of her eyes told me she knew it. Knew it was for her.

“If your roommate is interfering with your art, move out. If your friend is interfering with your art, find a different friend. Go friendless, if you have to. If your brother is interfering with your art, drowning you, tying rocks to your ankles and pulling you under, let…him…go.”

Eithne was the only student that wasn’t taking notes. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her body was as still as a marble statue in her sweatshirt, cleaned and scrubbed of all clay memories. Her eyes were daggers.

“If your brother has an addiction, then he needs to help himself,” I continued. “If he won’t help himself, you certainly can’t help him. If your brother is sucking up your time and your money and your passion, then you need to cut him out of your life. Immediately. Fucking yesterday.”

Perhaps the specificity of this portion of the lecture caused a few students to pause, hesitate. A couple heads lifted. A few looked around them like coming out of a trance. Why was it suddenly so dark? Why was the professor breathing so heavily? With sweat on his brow? With knuckles white on the edge of the lectern? Why wasn’t he looking at anyone else except for a paralysed girl in the back row right by the exit door? What the fuck was going on?

“He’s no good for you,” I said. “I mean your art. He’s no fucking good for your art. Do you hear me?”

Eithne called out, “Professor Merrick?”

I think everyone in the auditorium was just as surprised as I was. Heads whipped around. Pencils dropped, rolled off the corners of desks. Fingers stilled over keys.

I gritted my teeth, tensed my jaw. I’d worked myself into a sort of frenzy. A dictator imposing my will. A tyrant before his masses. Now here was a dissident. A thorn in my side. An opposition voice. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear her. I wanted her to listen. To do as I said. To come to me. To be with me. Just being with me.

“Yes, in the back,” I said begrudgingly.

Eithne scooted to the edge of her seat. She rested her elbows on the end of her desk. Her hands hammocked her chin, almost sweetly. She smiled and her eyes flashed in the dim light of the storm. Just above us. About to let loose.

“Professor Merrick,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear, just loud enough for the whole auditorium to hear, “I think what you’re suggesting we do might kill an artist’s work just as efficiently as keeping around a source of inconvenience.”

She spoke naturally. Completely at ease. Confident. Completely fucking confident.

“Say with your example of the brother,” Eithne continued, “say you cut him off. Abandon him, leave him to his addiction, as was the case in your totally random example, no?”

My little Raglan Road girl had the class as transfixed as I had. Eyes darted to me as Eithne spoke. Could they sense too that she was disrupting something? Ruining something? Could they feel the tension? The frustration in my every bone at her not just listening? At her not rolling over for me?

“What does that do to the soul, I wonder,” Eithne said, closing the trap she’d so effortlessly laid out. “Because wouldn’t you agree that art, great art, comes from the soul? What kind of soul would abandon flesh and blood? What kind of art could possibly come from something so black? Pearls are made under pressure, Professor Merrick. No pearl ever came from a pit of tar.”

It was clear that she was finished as she leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smug smile toying at her mouth. She was confident that she had emerged the victor.

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