Page 12 of Rivals
Chapter 12
Lachlan
Thisisidiotic,Iknow that. She is utterly and completely infuriating. I want to choke her out and watch the light start to fade from her eyes, and kiss that pouty mouth until she can’t breathe. I would be more likely to go with the former, purely for what she did to my painting.
The lock-in situation is my best shot at getting something done in such a short amount of time. It is less distracting, and maybe she might give me a good enough idea. Something I can work from. I don’t have anything floating around up there, and it makes my whole body feel like a beehive that lost its queen. Which is to say, I know there is something in there, but it refuses to come out because it can’t figure out what to do.
As I walk to my only class of the day, I hope that maybe something will come to me between now and when Revna and I make the terrible decision to do drugs together. I never said I was smart or that any of this was a good idea. It’s actually a really messed up situation. But as I know quite well by now, life is not in my control.
Sculpture is one of my favorite classes. Doing art obviously requires the use of your hands, but sculpture requires the use of your hands like a piano player tickles the ivory. As cliché as it is, one of my favorite pieces in the world is the statue of David. It’s beautiful, it’s massive, and a feat of artistry. There is something to love about every part of it. The detail in it inspires me. The concern on David’s face is what speaks to me the most because it’s full of anguish. Something I understand.
I have always wondered what was going through Michelangelo’s mind while he carved it. The slow and steady hand to work the marble and chisel soft enough that it didn’t crack but hard enough to remove the stone. Was he thinking at all? Or was his mind finally silent?
Some students are on one side of the room already working on chiseling. Sculpture comes in many forms, stonework being one of them, but I have been leaning towards pottery as of late. I’ve enjoyed the new form of sculpture. Although it’s not my typical medium, I don’t mind exploring other ways to do art.
Once I have my clay and tools, I get to work wetting the wheel and clay, spinning it to form how I want. My hands begin shaping, and my mind cuts off like I hit mute on the world. Blissfully silent.
The whine of the wheel lulls my restless mind to a sort of calm I only get when I create something. Then I see her every time I blink. The absolute contempt, the anger directed at only me. My thumb pushes into the mass on the wheel to put it down into more of the idea of a bowl.
Why? Why did she put us in this situation? What drove her to do it?I understand anger, and I understand hatred. Sure, we have been enemies for years. But why now? Why that painting? Especially one that was important to me? As an artist herself, she had to know she was hurting both of us when she did what she did. Yet, there is a part of me that feels like her anger was merely a part of the driving factor; it wasn’t the real reason. My skin burns and blood boils, exasperation pours through me, and I push too hard into the clay, ruining the bowl or vase I hadn’t fully decided yet. It has returned to its unrecognizable form, and I have to start again. I grumble to myself to focus, I have to have at least one piece done for my final.
Finals and graduating all feel so trivial right now. I feel like I am on the precipice of something. I don’t know what that thing is. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I know it will link Revna and me forever. Something is coming, I don’t know why or by whom, but change is on the horizon. I can feel it.
I start the mangled mass of clay again and begin shaping it into a vase. My hands make the decisions for me as I form the vase into a large cylinder, almost perfectly circular. I stop the wheel and then pinch it around the sides at the bottom and the top. It’s an odd-looking thing, but it feels right. I put it in the kiln to dry, then paint it. The only color I can think of is black, so black it almost looks blue.
***
I head straight home to clean up my apartment because my crap is all over the place, and I don’t want anything to get in our way. I know Friday won’t be here for a couple of days, and I don’t have to impress Revna, but I want the space to be as conducive to a creative atmosphere as possible. I have to work the next two nights at the tattoo shop and won’t have time otherwise. We are in this together now, and I refuse to be the one who doesn’t get us to the MoMA. I will carry both of us there if I have to. I didn’t see her for the rest of the day, and part of me was glad for it. I don’t like how I feel around her, and it is blatantly obvious she doesn’t like me either.
Regardless, we have to work together. So, I will do what I can to make it as easy as possible. Not a single thing has come to mind for what we could do. I think it needs to be acrylic or oils on canvas, I know that much. We should be consistent based on what we did last time. Well, what theythinkwe did last time. We can’t be Jackson Pollock, and we can’t be Botticelli, so we need to split the difference with our more modern take on it. I noticed Revna is a little more romantic with her lines, and I am a little more literal. Melding the two will be difficult.
I still don’t know what the judges saw in our paintings. I saw a mess and a blatant disregard for color and texture. Though I have to admit, what I saw after the judges were done was a sort of yin and yang situation. Because our color schemes happen to be perfectly coordinated, it made sense that it would feel that way, and that was all by accident. In other words, I think we made it to the next round purely by luck. So, I wonder what we could create without the sabotage.
Chapter 13
Revna
Ican’tbelieveIagreed to this. My feet can’t stop moving, and I’m pacing my room, which is surprisingly empty for an artist. The walls are white, with one piece from a street artist on the wall opposite my bed. Other than that, it’s clothes, books, and a lamp.
This is not a good idea. I know it’s not, and I’ve tried to ignore that tiny seed within me that might be a little excited to see where Lachlan lives. To see what is behind the grouchy, angry man. Maybe he will make more sense to me instead of how I have always seen him. I suppose it’s possible; being in someone’s space says a lot about a person. Call me curious.
I shove some pants, t-shirts, underwear, and bra into my bag. I grab my sketchbook and the few paints I had at home because Lachlan destroyed the rest of them. That prick. He should replace them. It’s the least he could do.
My class is in about an hour. After it’s over, I’ll meet Lachlan, and then we will commence this utterly ridiculous idea to create art together.
***
One of my classes is photography, and I generally enjoy it. But the senior project is self-portraits. I hate taking pictures of myself, and everything I did felt naturally stupid. Posing felt off, and coloring felt off. I finally settled on a picture where I looked over my shoulder and directly into the camera.
I couldn’t hardly look at myself while I started editing lighting. I decided to draw in some things around my head, very Banksy meets Warhol.
While taking this class, I did learn a few things. One of them is I thoroughly hate digitally drawing. It feels weird. It could be simply a learning curve for me, but something about the weight of a brush with paint feels better to me. The connection is there. However, I enjoy taking pictures of architecture; that was one of the only things I was generally drawn to. One of my favorite things about this city is the architecture. It has gothic, traditional, modern, neoclassical, and even some Art Deco styles.
I like how the lines of buildings can help frame a photo and tell a story, be it a historical story like a building designed in Art Deco from the twenties or a neoclassical structure reminiscent of the Roman Empire. The history behind the art speaks to me, and photography helps to catch it.
Class goes by quickly, and it’s all I could do to focus on editing my self-portrait. I’m not sure if it’s done. I decided to switch gears, draw intricate flowers, and mix them with textured pop art like the old comic books, and it’s still not sitting right with me.
I trudge out of the room feeling entirely uninspired and head down the stairs to find Lachlan leaning against the wall across from the staircase. He’s staring at his phone, and my footsteps echo in the stairwell, giving me away. I stop on the steps as his gaze rises slowly from my feet to my eyes. His eyebrow ticks up and he pushes from the wall.
