Chapter 1

1

TATIANA

T o accompany the sky's rumbling thunder, Tatiana Khan's brushes fall to the floor. She bends to pick them up, weary from work. The still moist leftovers of paint on their hair splash all over the wood, creating vivid bursts of color.

"Ah, Pollock," she sighs.

Grabbing a wet rag to clean up the mess, she shakes her head at the overused joke. The yellow paint stains her fingers, slimy and yolk-like. Wanting to get up, she reaches for the table's support, inattentively leaving yellow marks behind. A sign to finish work , she nods. I am leaving behind trails of sun, she recites, trying to remember the poem without success.

Making her way to the bathroom, Tatiana has to jump over her crumbled messes, belongings laying in strange combinations. Tangles of clothes stretch and curl, intertwined so tightly and chaotically that one could mistake them for lovers, sprawled around the wooden panels. The fabrics seem almost to breathe, in and out, flowing with the animal rhythm of deep sleep. She likes the image and reaches for her sketchbook instead of the bathroom door.

She draws a stormy riverside, maybe abandoned. Women, wanting to wash their clothes, could be driven away by the harsh weather; they have left in haste. Out of their baskets dark shirts and undergarments must have fallen, tossed about by the wind. The tumbling materials stretch out on the sand, wild, unintelligible. Their outlines speak to an animal quality—when she draws them captured in motion, their sleeve limbs appear to run. Here and there, the sketch is marked by traces of warm yellow paint, still stuck to her fingers. Satisfied with the idea, she leaves the sketchbook on the floor, determined to finally wash her hands and rest.

The switch clicks and a flood of bathroom light hits her eyes with a piercing harshness, putting in spotlight the toothpaste-stained sink. Solitude seems to double Tatiana's tendency to forego cleaning. It also seems to triple her artistic potency, which is how she has been justifying leaving sinks cluttered, floors littered, and bedsheets unchanged. She can easily disregard caring for her space when she thinks of it more as a studio, rather than home. Sometimes she wonders whether her unwillingness to rent a space to paint truly comes from financial motivations as opposed to her liking this state of intimacy with art, unseparated from her private life and overflowing in every room.

–

"Come on, Terry's playing tonight!" Connie shouts on the phone.

It's pouring heavily, and Tatiana looks out the window in resignation. She shivers, thinking of stepping outside into the mud, bathing in evening rainwater.

"The weather's horrible," she says, all the same slowly letting go of her plans for a peaceful night inside.

"Good thing the club has a roof," Connie concludes, hanging up with a brief, "See you there!"

With no heart to dim her friend's excitement, Tatyana begins dressing up to go. Stumbling over piles of belongings, she manages to dig out some clothes of dubious cleanliness. To remedy the uncertainty, she buries her face right in, smelling only the reassuringly delicate scent of the laundry detergent. Notes of vanilla stroke her skin as she shuts her eyes close, preparing to face the unpleasant air outside.

Tatiana, now ironing her shirt, craves to feel the hot steam with each lifting of the iron, trying to get all the warmth it can afford her. She doesn't tolerate cold weather well. Each year, unable to contain her excitement for spring, she ends up spending too much on summertime clothes, later lost in the pits of her wardrobe. Linen dresses and light cotton underwear wink at her seductively from every spring clothing collection.

In childhood, this aversion towards winter often sparked good-natured teasing from her parents, entertained to see their daughter grow up far from the freezing land of her grandfathers. A child who doesn't know the true winter, they'd laugh.

Driving to the venue, she yawns, but is glad to be going out. Ever since parting ways after art school, she and Connie rarely spend time together, torn between careers and bigger or smaller loves. Without Connie and other friends, Tatiana would probably lose her sanity. Working on her art for hours in solitude makes her mind tender to sound and light. To create, she must exaggerate each state of feeling, letting it flow onto the canvas. Whenever a wave of inspiration hits, she refuses to pause, afraid of affecting the quality of her creation. Afterwards, even though satisfied, she often finds herself weary of her own thoughts, sensitive and estranged from conversation. An animal in a cave, she muses. Friends are often an artist's saviors.

The radio remains turned off, letting the gentle sound of rain fill her car with its simmering, static noise. Little droplets hit the windshield bringing back images of hours spent driving around in the backseat of her father's car, filling her mind to the brim with a familiar, nostalgic fog. Racing rain drops, swimming down like thin veins, inspired a ton of her early drawings. She stops, seeing the vibrant light of the club's entrance dance around through the streaks of water. The strokes of light dissolve in her relaxed eyes, colors blend into each other. She sits still for a moment, taking in the impressionist beauty of the scene.

–

"Terry, congratulations!" She embraces the young man, taking a seat by the bar with Connie, watching him get on stage.

Terry is a perplexing character, entirely unsure of what path he wants to commit to. The only consistent thread in his life, as far as Tatiana can tell, is his love affair with music. As long as he's on stage, he seems to be doing fine.

"So… He no longer plays the piano?" She leans in to whisper to Connie's ear.

"No, No. He prefers wind instruments now. Tonight, it's the trumpet."

"How does he even do that?"

Connie chuckles, light-hearted. She has a delightful chuckle, sweet and chiming like small, high-pitched bells.

"It's the curse of being young, Tat," she explains. "They're good at everything and can't choose anything."

"Maybe you're right," Tatiana responds, turning to order a drink.

Deep down, however, she's pondering her friend's words. Terry's constant indecision seems foreign to her. As a child she knew what drew her in, and in a self-perpetuating cycle of practice and praise, she was certain she had found her true calling. Granted, she always felt blessed to be graced by the guidance from her parents, sure to be by her side as she kept working on her craft. Of course, she gave other visual arts a try, but always circled back to pencils and brushes, finding that these infrequent departures only deepened her relationship with painting. In photography, she found self-expression to be too limited for her taste, nonetheless learning from it the importance of light. Light entered her paintings like a phantom, setting the ambience of the entire scenery. Not many people pay attention to light while admiring a painting, even though that is its main component. Her father made sure to teach Tatiana sculpture; his eyes tearing up as he watched her chisel the way into the stone. Working with such an unforgiving material taught her invaluable lessons, infusing her own art with a persistent appreciation for form. From each art she could borrow from, she did, but always faithfully making her way back to the love of her life, painting.

At the opposite end, there was Terry—a tangle of aspirations and talent out of which something resembling a troubled artistic soul emerged, playing for pennies at bars and picking up girls after each show. For now, Connie was the girl for him, just as the trumpet was the instrument. Whatever he'd play next will probably replace the trumpet, just as soon as his infatuation with Connie will come to pass, replaced by another girl, Tatiana is sure. At least for him the pool seems infinite , she concludes, slightly bitter. In the artistic community, queer women seem to be caught in their own webs the moment they step in, and everyone is somehow tied to one another, entangled in sticky webs of longing and memories. Back in college, Connie and Tatiana used to have late night conversations spinning until morning hours, comparing their lives.

The band starts playing, and the chatter quiets down, making the few surviving conversations more sharply defined. The strings of singular voices tingle Tatiana's ears, making it impossible not to casually eavesdrop. She's not feeling very passionate about jazz music.

"Ah yes, I've been to the gallery." A clumsy whisper makes its way to Tatiana across the bar.

A young pair, apparently finding it impossible to keep quiet, exchange some recent experiences with the art scene of the city, hunched over their drinks.

The woman, girl, really, resembles Tatiana's old friends from college—her clothes and hairstyle communicating an avid interest in art, or perhaps fashion. Her dangling pearl earrings reflect beautifully the dim light above the bar. The sparkle carries a tinge of warmth.

"What'd you think about the new painter there?" asks the boy, in no whisper at all.

If Tatiana cared about the musical performance, their conversation would be annoying.

"The woman?" The girl continues without hearing the answer, "I thought her paintings seemed very…serene? Very calming."

"Definitely. I liked them a lot." The boy shifts on his seat, finishing his martini. "Some of the best landscapes out there right now, for sure," he states, self-assured.

Tatiana, now particularly invested in the conversation, decides to join in and inquire about the artist, unsure whether she recognizes the gallery. Carefully picking up her purse, she leaves the transfixed Connie in favor of the loud couple, ready to investigate.

"Excuse me," she smiles. "I overheard you talk about painting, and wanted to ask?—"

She sits down next to them, already a bit sorry to interrupt. But the pair seems welcoming.

"Do you remember the name of the artist?" A tinge of hope decorates the last syllables of her question, hung in the air vibrating with jazz. Not many people remember contemporary artists' names, but the boy visibly wants to impress his companion, straining his memory.

"Umm…" He furrows his brows, focused, "some generic surname, like… Matthews? Yeah, Matthews, I think. I don't know the first name," he says, beaming with pride.

"Alright, thanks a lot anyway. Are you two art students?" Tatiana asks, always invested in seeking out budding artists.

"I am." The girl smiles, leaning in closer not to shout over the music, though the piece is just coming to an end. "I study sculpture at the university nearby."

"Sculpture! That's beautiful!" Tatiana's eyes shine. "Are you familiar with Dominik Khan, by any chance?"

"Yes, I've been to see a live interview with him recently." The crowd erupts with applause for the music.

"You know, he's my father," Tatiana states, proudly.

The pair turn out to be very perceptive and knowledgeable, making the evening particularly pleasant for Tatiana. Their conversation flows, weaving in its fabric various subjects dear to her heart, such as artistic legacy and subverting tradition. Talking with young artists and art enthusiasts never fails to amaze Tatiana. She grows excited to see what the future brings for art, recognizing in the students the same sensitivity that drew her towards creating. She buys the pair a drink each and makes her way back to her original seat.

Something weighs heavy on her, however. Remembering their initial conversation, she feels unprofessional, not having heard of the rising talent already getting exhibited. Even though landscapes are her domain, she has no idea about this person. She takes out her phone, and blinded by the screen's light, notes down Matthews - paintings. Curiosity bubbles in her chest.

Connie seems to be having a good time, talking to Terry and his band. She looks charming in her teal dress, as if fresh out of an art deco painting. Tatiana always thought her much too good for all the men she chose to date.

"Where did you disappear?" Connie turned to welcome Tatiana into the conversation. Her cheeks seemed slightly blushed with wine.

"I learned something interesting," Tatiana raises her voice over the room's chatter. "A painter I haven't heard of is exhibiting her landscapes."

Terry laughs.

"I don't get why you choose to paint these boring things," he shakes his head, dismissively.

"Terry, stop being an asshole," interrupts Connie. "Landscapes can convey a lot of emotion. And especially if you understand the traditions, you can see how a painter chooses to interpret them."

"That's some art school talk." He turns to order another drink.

"And what have you been working on, recently?" Tatiana asks Connie, wishing to move past the unpleasant exchange.

"A new collage for some gallery." Connie shrugs. "I'm not happy with it at all, but I need commissions, so…"

Tatiana nods, feeling the weariness of the day on her shoulders. She considers buying another drink, as she would usually do, but decides against it. Besides, Terry is a real nuisance to be around, and she doubts she would get any meaningful conversation out of Connie in his vicinity.

"Listen, Con," she taps her friend's shoulder gently. "I think I'll head home, I'm very tired today."

Connie seems disappointed, but nods.

"Alright, get some rest. I'll talk to you soon, alright?" She turns to go along with the band. "And send me over the new artist, I'll check them out!" And having said so, she disappears into the crowd.

Tatiana's way to the exit is marked by constant bumping into cologne-smelling men or the purses of their companions. Once out, the rain hits her brutally. She keeps turning around to look for her car, lost amidst a never-ending sea of others. The unremarkable, silver thing goes unnoticed so easily that it gets on Tatiana's nerves with a concerning regularity. Each evening out is a hopeless digging through piles of vehicles. She clicks her keys in hopes of hearing the car's call.

Having finally found it, she feels a wave of gratitude so strong it warms up her whole body, impatient for a shower and some hot soup. Getting inside, her soaking-wet clothes flood the seat, making it cold and disgusting. The weather surely soured the evening, she thinks, driving too fast for the slippery roads, splashing some passersby on accident. They wave at her angrily as she speeds away towards home.

–

As the leftover borscht is warming up in a trusty, metal pot, Tatiana decides to search for information on the mysterious landscape painter. Matthews landscape painting.

The search turns out to be much quicker than she expected. Multiple galleries advertise one Ellie Matthews, shouting out critics' praise and showcasing the rich tapestry of her portfolio. Looking through the paintings, Tatiana can see how close the subject matter stands to her own work. The landscapes Matthews paints give voice to simple objects enveloped by natural scenery. Little signs of humanity lay scattered amidst lakes and forests, filling the viewer's chest with something airy, like nostalgia. Childhood memories play around her somber trees, abandoned swings sit still, pensively. In other paintings, the sun bends low to kiss the earthy fields goodnight. The peaceful dance of Sun and Earth seems to go on indefinitely in her paintings, sometimes interrupted by the Moon. The sun seems to be made into a character on its own, tinting the sky into various moods. Matthews certainly values the delicate power of natural light, infusing her paintings with the harmonious power of nature valued so greatly in traditional landscape painting.

Something stirs within Tatiana, as she turns the phone off and walks towards the kitchen counter. The thick steam rising from the soup pot kisses her face. She pours herself a generous bowl and heads to her bed, feeling wrinkled and crumbled like a tormented napkin. Matthews' landscapes take place in similar states of mind, but her painting uses only very traditional tools. There is no bending of the form, which Tatiana adores so greatly. In her opinion, the paintings are technically good, but don't seem to ask any thought-provoking questions. In Tatiana's eyes, they prioritize the aesthetic homage to the artists of the past, which makes her question their value today.

They lack my courage, Tatiana tells herself. They're an ode to romanticism, not an original notion . She nods, eating spoonfuls of borscht, listening to the storm outside.

Who is this Ellie Matthews, anyway?