LEONARDO #3
Steph's first reaction is - understably - to laugh. A moment later however, the look on my face convinces her I'm actually pretty serious about my demand. "I don't have a bra on," she tells me.
A sigh escapes my lips. If so, it can't be helped.
"It's a distracting shirt," I say, glancing one more time at her before turning away. It's blood orange and ruby red stripes featuring a hot pink cat just over her chest and it's very close to being the most hideous pieces of clothing I've ever seen. I sail through my room to my easel and my chair for painting. There is the thing I have been working on this past week, a starry night and the galaxies hidden within colored dots.
She raises her shoulders in a shrug. "Grandma bought it. Ever since I dyed my hair orange last year, she thinks I have a thing with the color. I'm meeting up with her after this, so I gotta wear it."
"What's Beth saying about it?"
"She hates it."
"An intellectual, I see," I tell her, moving my head away to hide my laugh.
Steph rolls her eyes at me, faking a laugh. "Unlike you, Adds."
My eyes find hers again. "By the way, how's Beth nowdays?"
"The same, I guess. You've been to her the other day, right?"
I nod my head. The image of the hospital room comes before my eyes at once. Steph's sister, Steph and I have grown up together, have started painting together and it's been the three of us against those canvases until Steph moved to Web Design and Beth got sick. It was just after starting college when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, dropped out and stopped painting. It's always been me and her in competitions and on podiums, she was first and I was second.
And I hate it and I don't that it took her getting sick for me to finally win my gold.
People often mistake me for a prodigy, only because they never look at someone who isn't painting anymore. Bethany Addams, however, is a real one, a person - the only one I have ever met - to have been born to make art.
She is Luchian, slammed to the ground in pains because only a disease could ever stop her from painting. She is Beethoven. She is Dostoyevsky.
"So why did you call me?" Steph finally asks.
"I may actually be going to LEONARDO," I answer. My voice slips and comes out with a rather enthusiastic tone, against the dreadful feeling in my gut. "I feel like I'm betraying myself by going there, but Allen's already made up his mind. My mom too."
Steph takes a couple of steps, makes her way to me and brings both her hands up, resting them on my shoulders. Like that, she tells me something I'd loathe to hear, but needed too. "I think it's alright to take a shot. You're only betraying your pride that you may not come out on top this time, but as long as it's painting something, as long as it allows you to paint what you want, you don't betray any fiber in yourself."
I put her hands away. "LEONARDO is not about real talent, it's about the impression something makes, something that doesn't necessarily need talent."
"Who are you, Adds? Don't you believe in the impression real talent can make?"
And that is a question in need of no answer. She is right.
A sigh escapes my lips. If so, it can't be helped.
"It's a distracting shirt," I say, glancing one more time at her before turning away. It's blood orange and ruby red stripes featuring a hot pink cat just over her chest and it's very close to being the most hideous pieces of clothing I've ever seen. I sail through my room to my easel and my chair for painting. There is the thing I have been working on this past week, a starry night and the galaxies hidden within colored dots.
She raises her shoulders in a shrug. "Grandma bought it. Ever since I dyed my hair orange last year, she thinks I have a thing with the color. I'm meeting up with her after this, so I gotta wear it."
"What's Beth saying about it?"
"She hates it."
"An intellectual, I see," I tell her, moving my head away to hide my laugh.
Steph rolls her eyes at me, faking a laugh. "Unlike you, Adds."
My eyes find hers again. "By the way, how's Beth nowdays?"
"The same, I guess. You've been to her the other day, right?"
I nod my head. The image of the hospital room comes before my eyes at once. Steph's sister, Steph and I have grown up together, have started painting together and it's been the three of us against those canvases until Steph moved to Web Design and Beth got sick. It was just after starting college when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, dropped out and stopped painting. It's always been me and her in competitions and on podiums, she was first and I was second.
And I hate it and I don't that it took her getting sick for me to finally win my gold.
People often mistake me for a prodigy, only because they never look at someone who isn't painting anymore. Bethany Addams, however, is a real one, a person - the only one I have ever met - to have been born to make art.
She is Luchian, slammed to the ground in pains because only a disease could ever stop her from painting. She is Beethoven. She is Dostoyevsky.
"So why did you call me?" Steph finally asks.
"I may actually be going to LEONARDO," I answer. My voice slips and comes out with a rather enthusiastic tone, against the dreadful feeling in my gut. "I feel like I'm betraying myself by going there, but Allen's already made up his mind. My mom too."
Steph takes a couple of steps, makes her way to me and brings both her hands up, resting them on my shoulders. Like that, she tells me something I'd loathe to hear, but needed too. "I think it's alright to take a shot. You're only betraying your pride that you may not come out on top this time, but as long as it's painting something, as long as it allows you to paint what you want, you don't betray any fiber in yourself."
I put her hands away. "LEONARDO is not about real talent, it's about the impression something makes, something that doesn't necessarily need talent."
"Who are you, Adds? Don't you believe in the impression real talent can make?"
And that is a question in need of no answer. She is right.
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