Page 30 of The Art of Loving Ellie
Crossing my arms defensively, I close my eyes and take a breath. I do not want to have this conversation with him, but knowing it’s one we’ve been avoiding for a while now, I yield. Alex and I are friends, but first and foremost he is my employer, and it’s no secret that I have been underperforming in the art department.
I rub my hand down my face. “Look. I know, and I’m sorry—” He doesn’t let me finish my apology. Instead, he stands up and comes around his desk, uncrossing my arms by grabbing my hand.
“Ellie, it’s been almost seven months since I’ve had you working here, and I’m so grateful for the friendship we have built—but I hired you for your artistic ability, not your secretary skills. I’ve been lenient because I know moving to the big city is a huge change and I know that emotionally you’ve been disconnected, but it’s time.” I’m cringing, and I can feel the metaphorical ax he’s holding over me breathing down my neck. “I need you to produce something for my gallery by Christmas Eve.” The ‘or else’ he’s left unsaid hangs in the air between us.
It hurts because I’ve become so close to him, and for him to give me an ultimatum like this—it breaks my heart. I know that he’s right, but it doesn’t stop the familiar feeling of failure from beginning to overwhelm me.
I manage to squeak out that I understand, and he clasps my shoulder in his hand. “You can do this, Sugar. I have complete and total faith in your artistic abilities. Hell, maybe all you need to do is practice.” I nod my head, thinking he could be onto something as he walks back around to his desk. “Why don’t you head out, and I’ll give Mr. Tebbetts a call.”
If I’m being dismissed, maybe this is more serious than I thought. “Okay, I’ll see you next week.” He smiles, waving goodbye to me and I gather my things, fretting over the possibility of painting again. As I make my way out of the building, I get the feeling that Alex is right. I should dip my feet in first, easing my way back into my art, and it’ll all come flowing back. I start to feel an inkling of inspiration, and I grab on to the thin strand of hope, holding on as hard as I can as I begin to formulate a plan.
When I get home to my apartment, I drop my things down by the door and dash to my bedroom to change. I forgot how intoxicating this excitement that’s overtaking me can be, and I quickly move to gather up my supplies before I have the chance to talk myself out of it.
My art supplies, which I note are covered in dust, lay neatly packed up in the far corner of my living space where most people would have put a second couch. I initially set up a creative space for myself when I first moved here so I could still enjoy painting without having to pay a monthly fee to rent a studio or storage unit.
Some of my excitement tampers down when I take my first tentative steps toward one of the covered easels. With a shaky hand, I reach out and caress the cloth covering, feeling my pulse pounding throughout my body.Am I really about to do this?I take a deep breath and uncover the blank canvas—staring at it, wholly intimidated.
I kneel beside the large black duffel bag that sits by the easel. It contains some of my basic acrylic paints, brushes, and a wooden palette that Aunt Jane gifted me some time ago. I can almost hear the items inside calling to me; whispering to me how they’ve missed my touch, and that they’re eager to be used again.
I put one headphone in, then the other, and I shuffle through the music on my phone until I find "Sad but True" by Metallica, and crank it up. The music starts pulsing, and I play the air guitar, pumping myself up for what I hope is a successful attempt at finding myself again.
Starting with something simple, I decide to go with a floral piece with vibrant colors. I apply different paints to the palette and begin mixing the different hues I’m going to need. It’s strange doing something that has always felt so second nature to me, yet feeling like a stranger to my own tools. I place the tip of my brush onto the canvas and gently swipe it back and forth.
I’m expecting the first stroke of my brush to bring me an immense amount of bliss, but for some reason, what I’m feeling is anything but blissful. Thinking that maybe Metallica isn't the right vibe, I switch to something softer, hoping the calm sounds will level out the melee going on in my brain.
I bite the wooden end of the thicker brush I’m using, contemplating my next move, and decide to switch to a longer, thinner brush so I can add a few guide outlines for myself—that way I’m able to keep the shape of the flower consistent. Blending some purple with pink, I start to get frustrated when the paint becomes stiff on the canvas, drying out too quickly. I add a little water to combat the dryness, and because I’ve overworked my medium, it rubs half of the area I had already painted almost completely off.Rookie mistake.
Chastising myself, I attempt several different times to blend and mix the colors I had envisioned together to create one cohesive piece, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot execute the look I was going for.
After two hours of attacking the canvas, I rip my headphones out of my ears in anger and step back to look at what I’ve done. I’m sweating and red in the face as I gaze at my painting, recognizing it for what it is: an epic failure. Tears track their way down my cheeks as I cry in defeat.
What was supposed to be a stargazer lily, has become a big white blob with harshly blended pinks and purples, and a sad rendition of the stamen sprouts coming of out the center of the flower. I’m mortified to look at it.
I plop down on the ground next to my mess and hang my head in my hands. A sound escapes my lips that is harsh and abrasive against my ears, and black surrounds my vision as it closes to a tight tunnel. How could I have ever thought I was a great artist once? This pathetic attempt at something so base level tells me I’m far worse off than I even realized.
Lying back on the floor, I’m overheated and exhausted as I try and catch my breath. I stare up at the ceiling of my beautiful New York City apartment through tear-stained lashes. I may not be living here as long as I hoped.
Chapter Ten
Iwoke up to large snowflakes falling onto the city this morning, leaving a beautiful blanket of white in their wake. I dressed warm and comfy with my hair down in slight waves for my visit with Tyler’s family, and I can’t stop replaying the memory of his reaction to seeing it for the first time.
Timidly, I approached him as he waited for me at the entrance of the parking garage. All alone we stood closely together, and my heart fluttered like a hummingbird when he slowly reached up, tucking his hand around the base of my skull, and thread his fingers through my hair—searing my skin where his hand fit perfectly.
His eyes told me he wanted to kiss me, but instead, he gently pulled his hand away letting the strands tickle my neck, and watched as they flowed freely through his fingers. I couldn’t help but smile brightly at the heat that consumed his gaze. Only Tyler Mitchell can make me feel beautiful without using a single word.
The hustle and bustle of Thanksgiving Day has come and gone, and I now nervously tap my knees with my fingers as we make our way to Brooklyn where Tyler’s family lives. I’ve temporarily managed to shove all of my previous feelings about my failed painting out of my mind so that I can enjoy today with Tyler and his loved ones, and I sit quietly listening as he tells me about each one of them in preparation for our visit.
It’s a Mitchell Family tradition to celebrate the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and I can’t help but laugh when he tells me his dad always scopes out the grocery store the next day for discounted turkeys.
As he speaks, he reaches across the console and gently places his hand over my nervously tapping fingers. Rubbing his thumb in a slow circle right over the tender spot between my thumb and pointer finger, and I immediately feel some of my nervousness leave my body.
“The twins, Jessica and Jaime, are a handful, but they are the sweetest twelve-year-olds you’ll ever meet. Theo is my younger brother, who is currently navigating his seventeenth year by hiding from everyone and listening to heavy metal.” I smile to myself thinking that at least I should get along with his younger brother.
“Mom is a total sweetheart, and I’ll admit I’m a bit of a momma’s boy,” he laughs brightly at his statement, completely unashamed. “Dad’s a workhorse. He’s also pretty ornery and it drives my mom crazy! They argue back and forth but don’t let it fool you; they have been madly in love for just about thirty years.” He looks at me side-eyed and adds with a teasing smile, “It’s kind of gross, honestly.”
“Gramps is a character. He’s a prankster, and he won’t hesitate to tell you how good looking he used to be. He's the roots and foundation of our family. He grew up in Long Island where he met my grandma, and eventually, they migrated away from home over this way to live in Brooklyn. The house my parents live in is actually my grandpa and grandma’s.” He smiles as he continues to speak about his grandpa and his pranks, and I can tell he’s fond of the man.
“What about your grandma?” I ask.
