Apparently, Damen was a model for a while
time when he lived in New York, which explains why his photo is circulating on the Internet, where anyone can download it and claim it’s theirs.
It passed from hand to hand, and we laughed at this funny coincidence, but there is something that bothers me and that I
can’t explain it to me. Since Damen has just moved from
New Mexico not New York, he should look a little younger in this photo. Because I don’t know
person who has exactly the same face at seventeen as at fourteen, or even fifteen. Now, in the photo Miles has on his cell phone, Damen looks exactly the same.
I do not understand anything.
In art class, I go get my brushes and colors from the cupboard, and go to my easel, forbidding myself to react when I see Damen installed right next to it. I
Take a deep breath, put on my blouse and choose a brush. From time to time, I glance at Damen’s painting, trying to hide my amazement at what I discover – a reproduction
incredible of Picasso’s Woman with Yellow Hair .
Today’s work is to try to reproduce
the most representative work of a great master. I don’t know why I got it into my head that Van Gogh’s swirls would be easy to imitate, child’s play, in short an A for sure.
But judging by the chaotic brushstrokes that leave
in every direction on my canvas, I was on the wrong track. And now it’s ruined, impossible to make up for it. I don’t have the slightest
idea of what I’m going to do.
Since I became extralucid, I no longer need to study. I
I don’t even need to read anymore. All I have to do is place my hands on the cover of a book, and that’s it. What about surprise checks? you will object. Let’s say they became tests without surprise. I run a finger over the question and immediately know the answer.
But in art, it’s different.
Because talent cannot be improvised.
Which explains why my painting is the exact opposite of Damen’s.
The starry Night ?
Damen examines my poor canvas which is dripping with paws
bluebottles, and I am paralyzed by embarrassment, amazed that he can guess what my awful smear is supposed to represent.
In literature, for example, he is capable of responding to all
Mr. Robins’ questions, when he only had one night to
study the three hundred and some pages of Wuthering Heights. Not to mention the anecdotes and other historical facts that he mentions in
passage, to believe that he was there. In addition, it is ambidextrous. It doesn’t seem like much, but you have to see him write with one hand and paint with the other
with the same happiness. And I’m not even mentioning the tulips that appear out of nowhere.
Ms. Machado strokes her long braid of silky hair in
leaning over Damen’s canvas. His aura sparkles with a beautiful cobalt blue, and his ideas do somersaults in his head, jumping with joy
as she replays her memories of brilliant students and realizes that she has never had a student so naturally gifted.
He looks like Pablo himself! Wonderful ! And you, Ever, show me.
She still smiles, but inside she asks herself:
“What could it be?” »
His thoughts confirm my worst suspicions. I died of shame.
Oh, uh… It’s Van Gogh. Starry Night, you see? She nods and makes an immense effort to remain impassive.
I see. Not bad for a start. Van’s style
Gogh is much more difficult than it seems. Don’t forget the golds and yellows! After all, it’s a beautiful starry night!
Her aura begins to glow again as she walks away. I know
that she doesn’t like my painting, but I appreciate her tact. Without thinking, I dip my brush in the yellow, without wiping off the blue, and when I apply the brush to the canvas, it makes a big green paste.
Frustrated, I compare Damen’s magnificent painting and the
mine, pathetic, while my ego deflates like a balloon.
Tell me how you do it.
Who do you think taught Picasso painting?
I drop my paintbrush, which crashes to the ground, throwing viscous drops of green paint everywhere, from my shoes to my blouse to my face. I hold my breath as Damen leans down, picks up my brush and hands it to me.
Everyone has to start somewhere. Even Picasso had a master.
His eyes don’t leave mine as his fingers brush over my scar.
The one on my forehead. Hidden under my bangs.
Whose existence he cannot know.
He smiles, removes his hand and the warmth it infused in me, and
returns to his easel. And I remember to breathe.
