The Art and the Story
Alone in the student exhibit gallery, Theresa Murphy hung her oil painting, adjusting it until it was perfectly aligned. She took a few steps back, closed her eyes. When she opened them, she pretended that she was seeing it for the first time, the way everyone else would see it at tomorrow’s opening.
The rippled pond and the lush pine forest were vibrant, alive with movement, dense with texture and portent. The thatched roof cottage was a solid, trustworthy home, but also a little wonky; the perspective was off, windows still not reflecting the waning sun the way that she’d intended. Mother and son playing on the lawn were mere suggestions of people, so anyone could read themselves into enjoying a summer afternoon in that peaceful place.
Head throbbing after so many sleepless nights, she pinched her arm to keep herself awake. Overall, the painting was…almost acceptable. It was exactly what you’d expect from a college freshman only a few weeks into the semester. Every other incoming art major was in that same place of yearning raw talent, eager to learn and eager to please.
She glanced at the paintings on either side, reminding herself to be generous, focus on her own work. “Comparison is the thief of joy,” Mrs. Browne used to scold their high school art class.
Stunned, she stared at the other paintings. Her gut clenched. She couldn’t breathe, looking from one to hers to the other and back to hers. She’d thought this show was just freshman; were upperclassmen and grad students included? Shaking, she turned to survey the entire gallery. Every painting demonstrated unmistakable genius, promise of future greatness.
Not breathing, she assessed the distance between her shimmering vision and the drunken idiot paint-by-numbers horror she’d painted. She could never do what everyone else had achieved, not with all the time, studying, money in the world. For the sake of her art, she left home and family, betrayed the man she loved and who loved her. After all that, look where she landed. There was no going back. She had to make a new life starting here and starting now.
There was a knock on the gallery door. She swiped under her eyes, turned to see who was there. Two well-dressed young men stood outside the glass panels, waving to her, pointing at the handle. She waved her hands, not open. They laughed, pointed at the handles. She walked closer, thinking how handsome they were. Deciding they looked safe enough, she cracked open the door, braced her foot in case she had to slam it closed.
“The gallery’s not open.” Her voice was raspy, tight from exhaustion.
“Oh, come on. You’re here. Can we come in?” The taller one with brown hair smiled at her.
“Just a quick look? We’ve heard it’s an exceptional show, just wanted to see for ourselves. We’re going to the country for the weekend, won’t be here for the opening. Please, let us in?” The shorter one with close-cropped blond hair beamed brilliant teeth at her, winked.
“Okay, I guess. But only for a minute. I was just leaving myself.”
“You one of the art students?” The taller one asked, looking into her eyes as if he were genuinely interested in her answer. “I’m doing a double major, business and art history.”
“No,” she said. “Just helping out at the gallery.” The lie came out as if she’d planned it.
“Figures,” said the shorter one with a friendly smirk. “You’re too beautiful to be just an art student.”
“Don’t mind him. He’s an idiot,” said his friend. “I’m Robert.”
“He’s the idiot,” said the other and held out his hand. “I’m Joseph. Joseph Grayson.”
She slid her small hand into his cool one. “Eleanor. Eleanor Martin.”
She’d always liked that name. It was early days here, she could be called any name she liked. She chose Eleanor.
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This piece was written in response to a prompt by a Medium publication that has yet to respond to a single one of the messages I have sent over the past month. So be it for them. I, meanwhile, have advanced a novel that had gotten mired and is now jolted free to terrific and productive effect — and had a marvelous time doing so — AND drafted a post for today.
I cannot wait to work further with Eleanor, once known as Theresa, an insistent sort of character who is going to have to wait for the current story in progress to be finished. I wonder if she’ll respect that boundary.
