Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

VIVIAN

A fter saying goodbye to Barb and Millie, I walked down the hall to my apartment. I'd only opened the door wide enough to pull the two Louis Vuitton trunks inside before closing it and heading over to their place to show off my outfit.

As I entered the apartment now, I was struck by how cold and lonely it felt.

It was strange to be returning to my life after all that had happened.

It was as if my apartment shouldn't look the same, but of course it did.

It just felt like everything should look different, but didn't.

It was like Christmas vacation at home after my first semester in college. Everything was the same, but felt so different. Smaller, somehow. Less cozy and familiar.

Leaving the trunks in the hallway, I went into my bedroom and stripped out of my Chanel dress and put on a pair of leggings and one of my oversized men's shirts that I liked to paint in.

Later, I would go through the trunks and find something fabulous to wear out to dinner.

Why not?

I might as well celebrate.

The drama was over. While not getting my fifty grand, I'd at least gotten some killer outfits with matching purses out of the entire ordeal.

And some amazing orgasms.

Win, well, sort of win.

After pouring myself a glass of wine, I surveyed my apartment. The living room furniture was still damp from the fire sprinklers, and I still needed to replace the scorched coffee table, but that could all wait until later.

I put on some music and headed into my art studio.

I stood there for several minutes staring at the poplar plank I had prepared for yet another forged Mona Lisa.

With resolve, I plucked it off the easel and set it aside. Then I selected a fresh canvas from a stack I had leaned against a far wall and placed it on the easel.

I took a seat before the blank white canvas.

A shudder ran up my spine.

The terror of a blank white canvas.

So full of possibility.

So full of nothingness.

So white.

So blank .

It had been so long since I'd painted something of my own.

Even with the extra work to mix the historic colors and the skill involved, forgeries were easier.

There was a vulnerability to creating something of my own. It was impossible for an artist to distance themselves from their art, no matter the medium.

It was that human element, that pathos, that separated us from the robots.

An artist had heartbreak, triumphs, memories, a past.

While a graphic artist program could recreate a technically perfect sunset on canvas, there would always be something missing.

The emotional memory.

The paints would not hold within their pigment the sorrow or joy from the moment. They would not show the very primal and raw connection to our ancestors.

For who could look at the skies and not wonder how the very same stars, the same sun, the same moon shone down on our ancestors going back thousands of years?

The awe and majesty that simple thought inspired.

That I could stare at the same brilliant orange, deep purples, and subtle blues that a woman who lived hundreds of years before me had. Just because I would call it natural science and she would call it religion, didn't take away from the beauty of the sight or the human connection we now shared.

The image would not show that hint of pink that perhaps scientifically shouldn't be there, but existed in my memory. Because I remembered it that way. It was real; it was a living thing; it was art.

It was why even something as simple and innocuous as painting a sunset could still hold the power for a stranger to see inside of me.

To judge me. To judge that moment. To judge my memory. To judge my connection.

But not only to judge, to tear down, to destroy.

While it was true that throughout human history, all forms of beauty and art held elements of darkness, death, and destruction, it was because those were intrinsic elements of one another. They were part of the creative process. And they had a purpose.

There was no purpose to the destruction now.

There was no purpose to an art critic ripping to shreds a painting because it didn't fit their commercialized aesthetic.

Because they didn't believe sunsets should have hints of pink.

To what end?

What was the purpose of trashing a movie or a book or a restaurant? To warn others, some might say, but again, to what end? What purpose in this world did it serve to tell others that a burger wasn't to your liking?

The next person who came to the experience with distinct memories of backyard burgers, different tastes, and different emotions tied to their senses, could not possibly share the same view. When one person bit into a burger, they might be disappointed because they missed the slight burnt taste of their father's grilled burgers from long summer nights in their childhood. While another could bite into that same burger and be taken back to a perfect first date with the person they'd married. But both might miss out on the experience, because a random person on Yelp said it wasn't worth the trip.

The idea devastated me.

And crippled me.

How was it possible to create something so delicate and imperfect as art, in a world bent on the glorification of perfection and the debasement of those humble servants who tried but failed to meet thousands of uniquely individual expectations?

Was it any wonder I turned to forgery?

Forgery was safe.

The art had already been judged, and society had found it good.

It wasn't my memories mixed into the pigments of the paints.

It wasn't my soul.

Forgery was creating art while wearing a suit of armor.

I picked up my pencil, my arm suspended over the canvas.

I thought of Var.

Of the beauty trapped within the violent images and faded ink of his tattoos.

Of the hints of black and green within the deep sapphire of his eyes.

Of how the light reflected off his glossy black hair, making it appear sometimes almost blue.

I thought of the color red in all its passionate and irresponsible forms; crimson, cardinal, rust, ruby, carmine, scarlet, rose, cerise, claret, vermillion.

I thought of how droplets of water create little rainbows, even if that water is piped through an industrial fire suppression system.

How melted vanilla ice cream mixed with strawberry sauce creates a warm pink the same color as a blush.

Then I set the pencil aside.

Fear took hold.

Fear of the inevitable exposure of my heart through my art.

Fear of the beautiful destruction I would paint as thoughts of a brutal man with an arrogant wink and dark sense of humor took hold of all my emotions, memories, and soul.

I reached for my wineglass and drained it.

After returning from the kitchen with another glass of wine, I set aside the fresh blank canvas and picked up the mid-19th century landscape I had worked on before my life went to hell. The piece I was forging was suspected to be an early Thomas Cole, but was not yet proven. That hadn't stopped a rather disreputable grandfather from losing it in a card game to an even more disreputable character. So the family had turned to me.

I sighed as I placed the painting on the easel with renewed determination not to show the world my own vulnerabilities. I was a forger. It was safer this way.

After collecting my supplies, I juggled them in one arm as I opened the small bedroom window with the other. The change in air pressure caused the bedroom door to slam shut, but I barely noticed. By giving up so easily on trying to create something of my own, I felt like a failure, almost as if I had painted something and then shoved it out into the cruel, negative world to be chewed up and spit out.

Probably because I had this deep fear that each time I gave up, it made the next time that much easier, until eventually I would stop trying.

If I no longer painted for myself, and only painted the works of the long dead, would I even still be considered an artist? A human? Or would I become no better than the very AI robots our culture was fighting against?

Distracted by my morbid thoughts, I set about recreating the dammar resin varnish. To speed up the process, I crushed the resin crystals before pouring the turpentine over them.

As I worked, my vision blurred slightly as a pounding pressure increased inside my head. When I shook my head to clear it, a wave of vertigo made my stomach flip.

Breathing heavily, I gripped the edge of my worktable as I fought off the sensation of spiraling dizziness.

Turpentine vapors.

In horror, I looked over at the problematic window and realized it had once again shut, this time without my noticing.

As jagged darkness ripped at my vision, I lunged for the closed bedroom door, but didn't make it.

Crumpling to the floor, I struggled to rise onto my knees as my chest tightened. I strained to pull oxygen into my lungs, but it was like sucking mashed potatoes through a straw.

It wasn't just the fresh turpentine vapors. My entire studio was filled with dry pigments, casein paints, solvents, and chemicals like ammonium hydroxide, mineral spirits, and formaldehyde.

All used to create my forgeries.

All potentially deadly if their vapors were inhaled in a closed environment for too long.

I crawled toward the door and stretched out my arm.

My hand grasped the doorknob.

Then everything went black.