Chapter 3

3

TATIANA

" I 'm five minutes away, Fred, I swear," Tatiana shouts into her malfunctioning car speaker and hangs up, annoyed at herself.

Per usual, she's failing to be on time—something she has sworn to work on again and again, endlessly having to apologize for her delays. Stuck in a traffic jam, she can feel her thoughts buzz with excitement and a tinge of anxiety. Having the chance to finally meet her rival, Ellie Matthews fills her chest with tingling, not knowing what to expect, really. The cars around her keep honking chaotically, aggravated men in expensive suits, in their expensive cars, try to outsmart everyone, unwittingly blocking the road even more. Clogged up in the middle of the lengthy string of cars shining in the afternoon sun, Tatiana can do nothing but open the window and wait, hoping that the wine bottle on her backseat will not warm up too much. She picked out the wine hastily hoping it would be a decent one, now worrying that she bought something distasteful. The air flowing into the tight space of her car finally smells of spring, sun-filled and fresh, calming her irritated nerves. The cars finally begin to move.

–

The doorbell seems stuck, worn out by time. Tatiana presses it repeatedly to no avail, resorting to banging on the sturdy door with her fist. Waiting for an answer to her knocking, she looks up.

What unravels above her can only be described as angelic. Tall trees in early bloom spread their light-pink branches in elaborate ways, delicate petals fall here and there, stroking the ground with blessings of this effortless beauty. Tatiana takes out her phone, in an attempt to capture the view. Unfortunately, the quality of her pictures turns out to be disappointing and inadequate. The flat, banal photos fail to translate her awe. That's why painting exists, she thinks to herself when the door finally swings open revealing Fred, elegantly dressed up.

"Oh, hello," he says, his face pretend-upset at her being late.

They embrace, feeling their budding friendship spark brighter with each meeting. Their interactions flow effortlessly, and friendly physical contact grows more frequent between them, in the light way friends have with each other.

Stepping in, Tatiana is led into a wide, sunny hall. The tall walls seem to breathe light; their warm, off-white color embraces its guest with a kind welcome. The decor is simple but tasteful, certainly adequate for an artist's dwelling. Spread around the floor, glass vases hold tall, vibrant flowers in them. Tatiana nods, approvingly.

"Quite a nice place you got there, Fred," she laughs.

"Feel free to take off your shoes or keep them on, whatever suits you," Fred offers, moving swiftly to another room, presumably the kitchen. Tatiana can already smell rich spices permeating the air as she hears light, giggly voices filling the dining space. She takes these little joys in, relieving herself of the anxieties for the moment.

She sets the wine bottle she brought on the hallway table and decides to keep her shoes on, thinking that her clothes look more complete this way. Taking off shoes always seemed very intimate to her, perhaps because in her family there was no strong custom surrounding going barefoot inside. Having taken off her coat, she makes her way to the dining room, once more welcomed by strong light, bathing the entire house. Large, door-sized windows stand shadowed only by delicate cyan curtains, and when her eyes begin to settle into this pool of brightness, she notices Ellie Matthews glancing curiously in her direction, sitting amidst the other—more or less known to Tatiana—guests.

When their eyes meet at first, the women scatter their gaze, not knowing how to handle the weight of expectations each harbors for the other. Their brief game of glances is jumpy, with rules unknown to either of them. Tatiana's eyes juggle between meeting Ellie's and sliding away towards the safety of the wall, the elaborate table decor, and some other guests. With mercy, Ellie at last rises from her seat, making her way around the table towards Tatiana, putting an end to their awkward dance. Her green eyes seem to sparkle with dim curiosity, veiled, perhaps, by manners, as she extends her hand, decorated by various jiggling bracelets and elaborate, golden rings that match her golden hair.

"Hello, you must be Tatiana Khan. Pleasure to meet you," she smiles.

Her voice has a particularly pleasant lilt Tatiana wasn't expecting to hear. Each syllable sounds honeyed and rich, as if smoothly caressed by her tongue. It's deep and golden, like a jar of honey left at a tabletop.

"Well, pleasure to finally meet you too, Ellie," Tatiana responds, shaking Ellie's hand. Not knowing what more she could say, Tatiana nods and makes her way towards the table.

Meanwhile, Fred emerges from the kitchen, carrying dishes of potatoes, carrots, and duck, delicious steam reaching everyone's noses and salivating their mouths.

"Thomas, could you help me, darling?" he cries out, almost tripping on the table's leg. Fortunately, none of the dishes fall, and he manages to set them all down.

Thomas quickly gets up, soon to disappear into the kitchen. When he reemerges, everyone is asked to sit down and begin sharing the food. Chatter and clinking of cutlery fills the dining room, wine is poured into glasses, and Tatiana finds herself sitting opposite Ellie, trying to listen in to the conversation playing out between her and a talented young artist, Marceline.

The voices of the two women now and then smooth into polite laughter, and whenever that happens, Ellie's slightly glittering dress sparkles. Its black material has a glistening quality, enchanting to look at. Between the lively sparkle of her dress and the chiming of her jewelry, she looks quite remarkable to Tatiana.

"So… you don't like my pictures?" Marceline inquires jokingly, though behind the veil of laughter Tatiana can sense a shadow of offense.

"That's not at all what I'm trying to say," Ellie takes a sip of wine, straightening up. "I only think that sometimes, in search of more experimental methods, we lose our artistic sensitivity. Don't you agree?"

Something hot swirls around Tatiana's head when she hears Ellie's opinion, said a bit louder than the other parts of the conversation. She stabs a potato with her fork, confident in her suspicion that the remark was directed at her art, not Marceline's.

Is that right? Who made you the expert, Ellie fucking Matthews? Thinking herself to be too self-absorbed, however, she puts some more garlic potatoes on her plate and listens on, curious to see where the conversation will take them.

"What do you mean, exactly?" Marceline smiles, cutting the duck.

"Through adhering to the art form's conventions, though forever changing," Ellie makes sure to note, "an artist, in my opinion, can convey particularly subtle nuances in meaning. Well perceptible, while also, more often than not, aesthetically pleasing."

Her tone of voice did not contain even a note of condescension, though Tatiana could feel a sense of superiority in Ellie's choice of words. Hers, Tatiana begins to see now, is the approach to art often found within the elites, championing the notion of keeping up the sophistication and literacy of the art world. Literacy dictated by themselves, of course. Feeling strongly about the subject matter, she waits on the edge of her seat for a chance to speak up. She can see Marceline blush, visibly offended.

"Do you think that because my pictures mix forms and involve experimental elements, I lose the nuances of traditional photography?" She tries to match Ellie's casual tone but fails.

Tatiana barely knows Marceline, but even so, she is aware of the girl's hot-headedness. Even though only twenty-two, Marceline is already commonly thought of as a prodigy in terms of experimental photography, creating beautiful works combining picture-taking and painting. Tatiana is a great admirer of her work.

"Not at all, Marceline, I'm so sorry—" Ellie stumbles, put in an awkward position. "I only like to think about the shock value a lot of contemporary art employs, regarding the subject matter or the form itself," she digs her own grave further.

Tatiana catches Fred's nervous glance in her direction, and suddenly understands why he chose to invite the two of them to the dinner. While a wonderful artist and friend, she knows Fred to be quite conflict-seeking, entertained by drama and disagreements.

"Ellie," Tatiana finally decides to join in, "where would you draw the line, then? Between participating in the evolution of art and defying it by unnecessary transgression?"

Their eyes meet, Ellie's are a bright emerald green and she smiles showing off lovely neat white teeth. Tatiana can see that she's not used to conflict, the corners of her mouth curl slightly in discomfort.

Ugh, I hate her. And why does she have to be so frustratingly beautiful?

"That's definitely up for interpretation, but I would say that if an artist resorts to incorporating elements shockingly outside of the form, or seemingly in defiance of it—" here she stops for a moment, thinking, "which I'm unsure now how to define precisely, probably as a form of denial of some sort… Then they are relying on the transgressive nature of the artwork, not on its quality, or skill involved, or even the pure message."

Tatiana turns the argument over and over in her thoughts, nauseatingly familiar with the train of thought, but looking for the most compelling way to show how harmful such beliefs can be to the developing artists.

"Every style seemed pretty transgressive at the time of its birth," she says, carefully.

"For sure," agrees Ellie, clearly wanting to sneakily escape the conversation.

Soon, the subject fades away in favor of others, and Tatiana turns to Thomas, having barely talked with him until now. They engage in casual small talk, and not having much in common with each other besides Fred, they naturally turn to the subject of his art. Fred's recent series of paintings exploring the theme of tears caused much stir in their circle. He built an entire installation made up of enormous glass drops made of crystal, reflecting light beautifully in little specks along the walls of his studio, only to then paint them, and dismantle the installation afterwards.

"Each time I go to see it, I find some new remarkable detail," Tatiana admits.

Thomas nods, proud of his fiancé.

"Are you guys not moving in together?" she asks, out of curiosity and lack of a better question.

"No, not yet," Thomas sighs, "we both really appreciate private space."

Fred interrupts, breaking into a very loud tone, clearly ready to stir things up.

"So, Tatiana—what do you think of Ellie's exhibition? Have you been?"

Taken out of her conversation, Tatiana looks around, irritated to be put on the spot in such an obvious way. She has seen Ellie's paintings online, but hasn't yet been to see the new exhibition live, which will now sound offensive.

"No, I haven't been to the gallery…" She shifts her eyes towards Ellie, "but I saw your art elsewhere. I admire it greatly."

Ellie blinks, seemingly flattered. Tatiana finds that slightly suspicious, since she is already known to be a very successful artist in the city, soon to open another exhibition. False humility tends to quickly annoy Tatiana, especially when everyone at the table has probably been to Ellie's current exhibition at the gallery.

"I think it's very… traditional," she adds, only as she said it realizing it might sound rude.

Apparently, she's not the only one to notice the ambiguous tone of her compliment. Everyone shifts on their seats, feeling the tense atmosphere rise in the air. Fred delights in it, believing that vigorous disagreements or misunderstandings lead to the most fruitful self-discoveries. He quietly begins collecting the dirty dishes from around the table, making room for dessert. Tatiana pours herself some more wine, slightly embarrassed.

"Hm… I do think I rely on tradition, since landscape paintings have such a rich history," Ellie gently remarks. "But Tatiana, you also rely on tradition."

I fucking don't.

"In what sense?" Tatiana asks, genuinely curious where Ellie is headed.

"Well, in order to subvert the form, you must have first learned its rules—no?"

"I definitely studied landscape painting in art school, but I rejected the romantic tradition, relying rather on my own imagination. Sometimes I paint what I see in nature."

As soon as she ends the sentence, Tatiana feels very proud of her own straightforwardness, having avoided the convoluted language Ellie seems to like using. The cold rim of the half-full wine glass strokes her lips, as she looks at Ellie's earrings dangling close to her bare neck. Her lovely bare neck. She takes a pensive sip of wine and the image of her kissing Ellie's lovely neck flickers unwantedly into her mind.

"I agree that we shouldn't think of what influences us while we paint," Ellie states enthusiastically, remembering the lessons her mother taught her, "but while painting, you necessarily use the tools you obtained beforehand. In school or otherwise."

"I think we strayed far from the original discussion," Tatiana says, feeling the little drops of wine tingle her teeth. She didn't like conversations to meander. "You say you're wary of contemporary art. Did you like my paintings?"

Tatiana notices a growing need in herself to hear Ellie's honest, raw critique. She's craving for Ellie to tear her art to shreds or proclaim it prophetic, no matter, she needs this woman's opinion. Something makes her crave it intensely. Perhaps it is Ellie's very thinly veiled confidence in her own opinions, perhaps it is the undoubted skill she puts into her own paintings. Tatiana leans in closer over the table to savor each word.

"I…" Ellie hesitates, but decides to continue, "I thought that your use of bold strokes and mismatched colors was captivating. It definitely made me reflect on your—the artist's—intentions, the reasons for, sometimes, going against the form and painting over it with such disregard." She nods to Tatiana, encouragingly. "But I also think the majority of your younger audience resonates with your art purely because it is against the grain . Or, not really against the current grain, but against the previous grain—which makes it follow the current one."

Tatiana, even though waiting for the last sentence to be a punch set up by the kind opening, still feels stung. She looks away, condemning herself for giving Ellie the blessing to be honest and failing to withstand it. What kind of an artist cannot handle honest critique? She rambles in her thoughts, seeing Fred carry dessert on little trays.

"I don't agree with your approach to art," Tatiana lashes out suddenly, speaking louder than before. "Not because I want to disregard tradition or because I disagree that certain contemporary art doesn't carry a lot of merit, but because through such a harsh stance on subverting form, you can easily discourage young, provocative artists."

Ellie straightens herself up on her chair, visibly touched. No one wants to discourage young artists, and such a harsh accusation certainly merits a harsh response. She thinks, but for too short a time, perhaps.

"I want to direct young artists and make sure their education gives them the tools to express their sensitivity and a critical approach towards art. That means welcoming various points of view, including ones that remain skeptical of some of your work, for example," Ellie finishes, taking a deep breath.

Tatiana's face flushes with heat. She wasn't expecting such a personal argument to unravel, but being a naturally stubborn person, she refuses to let this thread go. The entire table remains quiet, no one daring to interrupt the painters' discussion. Probably mainly for their own entertainment, feeling a particular sort of infatuation with the emotions playing on the two women's faces. Fred quietly distributed little plates of tiramisu during the heated exchange, and now both Ellie and Tatiana stare down at their portions, with no appetite left to eat.

"Which work, for example?" Presses Tatiana, having let a few moments pass.

" The swing . I don't like The Swing . I think that the splash of paint," Ellie stops for a split second, perhaps realizing that the three glasses of wine did their job, but choosing to continue regardless, "the splash of paint really just destroys the beautiful job you did crafting the hill landscape, even the swing itself is astonishing. So ethereal. And then the splash?—"

"The splash is the swing. It is the essence of the painting," interrupts Tatiana, wanting to explain in haste, "otherwise it would've been just an old, uninteresting landscape. Like some of yours."

Take that, you uptight opinionated bitch!

Why am I thinking about the lovely way her waist dips below her breasts and then flares out into her hips?

Now the guests gasp, finally realizing they probably should have stopped such a personal argument from escalating. Thomas excuses himself to the bathroom, feeling awkward.

"Alright, alright, girls—" Fred cuts in as the host of the dinner, "we are all artists here, we all employ various techniques, there's no need to be so harsh to each other. I love both of your work. I wish you both the best," he continues, trying to remove some steam from the situation, somewhat clumsily. They look at him with friendly disregard.

"I wish Ellie all the best," Tatiana responds, "I just think that maybe we shouldn't be putting love letters in galleries."

Ellie laughs, animated, and her earrings glimmer, again stroking her neck.

Her long elegant pale neck that is begging for my lips on it. Stop it, Tatiana. It has been too long since you got laid. Clearly.

Tatiana turns her eyes away not to stare.

"Even if my art were a love letter to romanticism—which it is not—I think that putting love letters in galleries would be very much in the vein of contemporary art. I bet someone has done that already."

"You have so much potential and you refuse to channel it into something more creative, you refuse to let your work flow. It feels rigid. It feels contained," says Tatiana defiantly, getting up from her chair. "That's all I think."

"I'm almost forty," Ellie reminds her. "I have explored my potential well up to this point, I think. There is excellence to be found in something rigid. Like ballet."

"You know what—" Tatiana looks straight at Ellie, "I'll just go. I'm tired and I've had enough wine."

She makes her way to Fred, leaning in to say goodbye.

"Fred, thanks a lot for the invitation, I'm sorry about this." She makes an ambiguous gesture with her hands. "I left you a wine bottle in the corridor, I forgot."

"Don't worry," Fred laughs, walking her to the hallway. "Are you sure you can drive, though?"

She stops, one arm in her coat, remembering that she drove here in her car.

"Shit. Can I leave it here for now?" Her eyes bat apologetically, knowing fully well that Fred has more than enough space to keep it.

"Pfft, sure. Don't get so heated with Ellie, please." Fred's tone changes to one that sounds very earnest, almost caring. "She treats her art very seriously, like all of us, but on top of that she can be very insecure."

Tatiana shakes her head, amused. There was not a tinge of insecurity in what she saw.

"Doesn't seem so to me, for sure," she remarks dismissively, buttoning up her coat.

"I'm serious," Fred picks up the purse that slid down Tatiana's shoulder. Ready to go, she gets back to the dining room to say goodbye to the sitting group.

"Bye everyone, I got very tired, as you could see?—"

Kind laughter erupts around the table, omitting only Ellie. She nods at Tatiana, and possibly neither of them knows what it is supposed to mean.

"See you around!" Tatiana exclaims, trying to counter the still lingering unpleasant mood. Once out of the door, she breathes more easily.

–

Gentle taps of scarce raindrops hit the cab's roof. Tatiana sits in the backseat, reflecting on the afternoon, and with time, the waves of anger fade out from her chest. She catches sharp notes of disappointment playing around her thoughts; she was thinking that maybe the dinner would convince her to open herself up to Ellie's art. Instead, it only served to further their differences. Ellie's self-assured tone still rang about Tatiana's ears, causing a mixture of disapproval and a strange sense of inferiority she hadn't felt since college. Ellie, in Tatiana's mind, sounded almost cruel. Watching the cars go by and the rain grow thicker, she keeps circling back to the tinge of hope she felt when she thought that Ellie could approve of her paintings. Perhaps something of that beauty, contained in between her delicate pale skin and her golden jewelry and hair, could have seeped into Ellie's opinions. The softness of her voice would perhaps make them tender and understanding. But it didn't. Instead, Tatiana was left bitter and curled on the cab's backseat, watching the promising spring weather of the day wash away, while thoughts of fucking Ellie Matthews until she shut up her stupid opinions flashing insistently through her head.