Page 92 of Pictures in Blue
We paint in silence letting the radio filter through the air, static interrupting the music here and there giving the moment a strange, comforting vibe.
“Did you know I paint?” Sky asks.
“No, I didn’t. You mean paint buildings like this?”
She bends to gather more paint on her brush. “No. I do abstract painting. Lots of movement, colors, shapes, whatever comes to me in the moment.”
“Do you sell them?”
“Nah,” she swipes her hand in the air, waving off the idea of it.
“Why not?”
“I don’t think they’re worthy of that really. It’s just a hobby.”
“Do you want it to be?”
“I dreamed of being an artist while I was in school, but I went to business school instead to open the shop. Don’t get me wrong, the shop was a dream too and I love what I do, I just wish I had the confidence to do more with painting.”
“I can understand that. The idea of putting my pictures out in the world is terrifying.”
“It is?” She stops painting to turn her body towards mine, watching me for a reaction.
“The most terrifying thing I have ever done,” I mirror her movements and face her. “There is always that fear of judgment. It doesn’t matter how good or perfect I think my photos are, there’s always someone out there who will hate it so much, they will tear it down. Pick it apart until only bones are left. Imposter syndrome creeps back in and I lose my confidence all over again.”
“How do you get it back?” She asks quietly.
“I don’t. I just do it anyway. I’m proud of my photos no matter what any jackass thinks,” I blurt out, thinking of the way James hated the photo of the fireman. A photo I was proud of until he shot it down.
“Is that what you’re here for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you here to get your confidence back?”
I think for a minute before answering. “I guess so. That and to figure out what I want to do.”
“Have you found it yet?”
“My confidence? Definitely.” Hudson’s face replaces James’ and I smile at the memory of him praising my work. Praising me. The pride he showed in his features. “What do I want to do? No idea.”
“You’ll figure it out,” she says.
“I hope so.”
“You know,” she starts, turning back to the wall and dipping her brush to grab more paint. “There is a vacant building for sale across the street from Fran’s. It would be perfect for a photography studio,” she shrugs.
“Or an art gallery,” I give her a side-eye. “I ran past it the other day and it’s a great space. But I would never be able to afford it.”
We both smile at each other with mutual appreciation and my mind starts shuffling through ideas again and what I could do with my own photography studio.
Once we are done paintingthe wooden siding of the inn, we pack up the supplies into the back of Sky’s truck. Does everyone here drive a pick-up truck? We make a plan to paint the shutters and the trim later in the week and before she drives off, she turns toward me, elbow hanging out the window, eyes squinting against the setting sun.
“Hop in,” she says.
“For?”
“Come on, I have to show you something.”
