Chapter Text
The way a brush moves across the canvas…it’s almost like you’re painting a symphony of color, conducting it to do your bidding; to create the drawing that eventually will be the end product. Will it guarantee fame? No. Will it guarantee money? No. You have to be the one to conduct it properly, or else you’ll create something that requires a trip to the trash bin and a clean canvas.
The blues, greens, yellows, oranges, and reds… those aren’t even all of the colors possible, I was just giving an example; they all play a part in the creation, if using color. If you’re using charcoal, then the blacks, the different shades of grey; how you blend, shade; what are you creating? You have to constantly remind yourself, so you don’t let your brain wander. For some artists, it can work out and create something brilliant. For most, the brain wandering can mess up the canvas, turning something that could have been beautiful into a trip to the trash bin and a clean canvas…again.
What artists dread the most is the creative block; artist’s block. It sucks. It’s like being immersed into your own brain, left to rot in a cage, entrapped in complete darkness; only until the light bulb turns on miraculously and the cage opens again. Who knows how long you would be trapped inside for?
I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry. I’m passionate about art, and I’ll go on a fucking tangent if no one stops me. Probably why I barely have any friends. I don't want your sympathy, just stating a fact.
As you can probably guess by now, I’m a student, a painting major, third year, at a well-known art college. I’m not going to tell you where. You could be a stalker or something; and I’m not one to give out personal information to anyone anyway.
It’s a great college, though, that much I can tell you. The campus is beautiful, located in the forest, almost in the middle of nowhere. A few dirt roads here and there.
We do have a couple of restaurants and a coffee shop on campus, which is nice, but other than that, there is barely anything to do, unless you had a car and were willing to drive thirty minutes to any form of civilization.
The dorms and classrooms are fairly close to each other. The buildings are made from a grayish, whitish, dotted, strong marble or concrete. The students, myself included, can't figure out exactly what they were made of. My educated guess is that it's a form of marble, since I've worked with marble before in a sculpture class freshman year. All I know is that the building were damn gorgeous; a marvel to watch when you aren't doing anything, which is rare.
Art school isn't fucking easy, let's get that straight. We don't just sit there and draw lazy ass stick figures and call it art. We work for it, more hours than most liberal arts schools. Our curriculum is tedious, requiring us to take art classes and liberal arts classes. Sometimes students are up for a week on end, trying to finish a project, drinking nothing but coffee and energy drinks. However, we do have Fridays off every week. Don't think it's a vacation. Friday's are referred to as "work day", which barely any of the students utilize, and take it as an extended weekend to party and fuck around until Sunday. That's not particularly a smart move, since the projects we have to produce need to be industry standard and professional. When I go to class, I feel like wanting to punch every student in the fucking face who tries to say that something that looks like it was drawn by a two year old and spit on is considered art. What pisses me off more is when they explain that it's abstract and represents 'human turmoil and societies issues'. I call bullshit. Complete and total bullshit. I have no pity for procrastinators; the professors don't either. They know when a student is slacking. They get a glint in their eyes, pursed lips, and their foot starts to tap. I only know this because I never pay attention to the other students. They're no where near as interesting. Our professors are living, breathing, works of art. Brilliant, intense, incredibly eccentric, maybe even plain crazy, but you'd have to be to want to study art for a living. It's almost like it's a requirement. I was surprised not to see that on the college application. Are you insane? Check yes or yes.
Every morning I get to wake up to nearly complete silence. I wake up at 6 am to get a head start on my work, so that’s mostly why. By get ahead in my work I mean, enjoy the silence of the campus while it lasts. Once the day starts, all hell breaks lose. I still can’t fathom people’s actions sometimes. I wanted to come here to get away from the hectic scene at other colleges. While on my college search senior year of High School, it didn’t occur to me that no matter where I go, no matter where I went; I could have gone to a college in fucking Alaska; there will always be douchebags, sluts, jocks, preps; the whole social spectrum. College is basically high school, except there’s more freedom, less moral guidance, and a hell of a lot more noise.
Waking up at 6 am had its perks. As I said, it’s almost completely quiet, with maybe a couple of cars passing that I could barely hear. I kept my window open, sitting on the edge of my bed, staring out into the forest, searching for that inspiration that wouldn’t come. Artist's block is a fucking bitch. I can't take this crap. Sighing, I rested my head on the window sill, watching the outside start to wake up, my eyes intent on finding something, anything, that will spark my interest. My canvas has been sitting on my personal easel for three days now, only a couple of marks made by my HB pencil. I kept changing my mind; that's probably why it's blank. This painting was due tomorrow. Now, I wouldn't be making a deal about it if it was just another assignment. I can do that. They have rules, guidelines. This was my final. The end of Junior year was crucial. No one thinks it is, but you have to get a certain grade, or you won't get into the highly advanced classes. I need to get into those so I'm guaranteed a job after graduation, which is what those classes entail. Why didn't the assignment have some sort of guidelines? Yes, I get it, it's art school where you can create and find your inner soul and crap like that; don't get me wrong I believe in it to a point, but I need structure. I thought about maybe taking up my writing again, since I haven't in a while. Maybe I could write something that'll make the painter side of my brain wake up and unlock my cage. I looked over at my bookcase and noticed my small, worn down journal full of hopeless poems that made no sense I wrote in High School during my "I hate society and everything about everyone" phase. I walked over slowly, picking it up, thumbing through the pages. Death. Darkness. Despair. Dad. Shit. I slapped my head, a little too hard, wincing at my own strength. I decided to move away from my snoring roommate, trying not to make anymore noise, and put the journal on my lap, a pen in hand (artist's always have some sort of writing utensil on them. Seriously. We're like a walking art supply store.)
I saw the blank page mocking me. My pen wouldn't move. When I realized that I had writer's block, I cursed under my breath and chucked my journal onto my bed, running my hands through my hair in frustration. Turning back to the window, readjusting myself so that my head rested on the windowsill, I watched the outside again, head heavy, eyes tired.
The trees rustled slightly with the cool October wind; the birds outside started to sing a melody, which started to oddly sound like a song I heard recently on the radio. My mind was playing tricks on me. The cool wind entered the room, sending shivers down my spine; but still no ideas. Damnit. All of the ideas I had at the moment were incredibly morbid from my old journal or just plain ridiculous. Maybe I could just paint a picture of a skull and say that it personifies the death to all humans because of the stock market or some shit. I chuckled to myself, knowing that at this point I have probably lost my mind. I shifted slightly, trying not to stare into the rising sun in the horizon; still nothing. The sun is supposed to perk up a ideas, since it's so "breathtaking"; I got shit from the damn sunrise. Today was going to suck.
I heard a rustle of sheets come from the bed across from mine. Closing the window, I tip toed quietly back to my bed and crawled in, putting my arms over my face, covering my eyes. After a couple of minutes, I glanced over to the other side of the room. My roommate, Spencer, who, other than being my roommate, is my best friend, and a ridiculously talented sculptor. Give him an idea, or just let him go; he could create anything from a life size, extremely realistic, human being to a completely abstract masterpiece. He's self taught too, which blows my mind.
Spencer doesn’t care how early I wake up. He’s used to the chill that enters the room from the window, so I don’t have to worry about disturbing him anymore. It was hard at first, but Spencer's a nice guy all around. In the beginning he would mumble that it was too early and that the cold felt like little needles pricking at this skin, but after a while, he just created a tent for himself from his comforter. He shifts in his bed all of time, regardless. Probably dreaming of his ex-girlfriend again. Don’t ask.
“Ryan.” Spencer’s whisper filled the room; I was surprised, and kind of impressed. He usually doesn’t start speaking until at least 9. I bring my arms down away from my eyes, turn my head from my pillow, and was greeted by Spencer, smiling sleepily at me. I can’t tell if he’s asleep still, but I'll answer him anyway.
“Yeah?” I reply, biting my lip. It’s a force of habit.
Spencer shifted again, sitting up. His hair looked ridiculous. It was sticking up every which way, making him look like he'd just been electrocuted. I smirked, covering it with my hand, trying really hard not to laugh.
“Shut up,” Spencer stated, groggy, still waking up, “What time is it, man?”
I shot a look over to the blinking alarm clock.
“It’s 6:30, Spence. You should go back to sleep.” I sighed, watching Spencer intently.
“I had another bad dream,” Spencer groaned, his voice borderline childlike. He rubbed his eyes, yawning wide.
I smiled, yawning too, shaking my head. "You've got to get her out of your mind, Spence." He looked at me incredulously, his head tilted.
"She's like....she's a demon, that's bent on haunting me until the end of time. I'm serious!" He saw me smiling wide, as tired as I was. Halfway through a yawn, I felt something smack against my face. I inhaled, smelling Spencer's strong cologne.
"Fuck you," I said, throwing the pillow back at him, missing, nocking over Spencer's lamp with a CRASH. He looked at me, his eyes wide. He was awake now.
"Did you just break my lamp?" Spencer asked, his smile wicked.
"Your lamp was in the way of the pillow. Try to keep it on a leash," I added sarcastically.
"Haha, wow Ryan. You should be a comedian, seriously. You're hysterical."
"So I've been told. I mean, I have so many stories to tell. Particularly about the time you and you know who went down to the lake that one time and you totally..." In a flash, Spencer jumped out of his bed, ran over to mine, and tackled me, tickling every part of my body he could find that was exposed from my too small pajamas.
"Stop it damnit! Fucking stop--" My laughter started to get louder and louder as I tried to push Spencer off of me. "Get off me bitch, you weigh a ton!" No matter how much this day was going to suck, Spencer made it a tiny bit better.
Spencer stopped, his mouth dropped open, pretending to act offended. "Ryan Ross, was that a fat joke? Why I never." Whipping what hair he had back, he flipped me off, and strutted back to his bed, crawling back under his tent.
"Oh come on Spence, I didn't mean it." I could see Spencer's head peak out at me, still in his act.
"Really?"
"Yes really."
"Oh thank god. I thought for a minute there that you were calling me fat. I was about ready to jump out the window."
"I don't know why you aren't a performing arts major, Spence. You're good at acting like a drama queen."
Spencer's face twisted into his wicked smile again.
"Who says I was acting?"
I shook my head in disbelief. Damn I love this kid.
Spencer's only a year younger than I am, but it really doesn't matter. He is my best friend...my only friend really. He is the only one who knows how to put up with me. I can be a stubborn, pretentious ass who hates everyone, but in the end, I know that Spencer always has my back. We've known each other since we were kids. We planned on going through every aspect of school together. It was fate that we both wanted to do art for a living, even though our majors are different. At least we're at the same college. I can't live without him, and I'm pretty certain he couldn't live without me, as egotistical as it sounds.
"Hey." Spencer woke me up from my nostalgia. He was putting on his running pants and shirt, getting a bottle of water ready. "Since I'm awake too, why don't we go for a run, huh?"
"Sure," I reply, smiling. It would be nice to run with someone else for a change. I didn't feel like being alone with my thoughts today. They were empty anyway. Walking over to my dresser, I throw on whatever baggy shirt I could find with my sport shorts I wear to yoga once in a while. Knock it all you want, but yoga is damn helpful for relaxing. "Ready." Spencer smiled warmly at me and opened the door, making sure that we both had a key. You can never be too careful. Here you get fined for getting locked out after one time. We've already had it happen, so next time, there goes 30 bucks out of both of our pockets.
The crisp fall air shattered whatever was left of my groggy, just-woke-up feeling. It pounded against my cheeks, frosting over my eyelids. I could see my breath in front of me in a fog. Every time I would breathe out, I would be temporarily blinded. I had to stay close to Spencer so I wouldn't fall into the lake near the trail. We ran for a good 20 minutes before taking a break on a worn out bench. It seemed sturdy enough to support the both of us. I gulped my water down, shivering at the coldness of the water and the briskness around me, nipping at my skin.
"I can't think of anything." That was my voice. I realized that I was thinking aloud. I turned to Spencer, smiling apologetically. He knows that I do that sometimes.
"Maybe you're just not looking in the right place," Spencer offered, swallowing his water like it was his last drink.
I put my hands on my temples, rubbing them, frustrated. "I looked out the window at the fucking sunrise. I read poetry. I even looked in my crap-journal for something, anything. I tried to write, but then I got damn writer's block on top of it. I should just drop out and make a living drawing caricatures of tourists in Key West."
Spencer laughed, taking another drink. He punched my arm playfully. His face contorted into serious Spencer, which I rarely saw. "Listen, Ryan. You're talented, okay? You're just in a funk. It happens to all of the great artists," He paused, taking a breath, holding onto his chest. He swallowed, and continued, "Why don't you go to the studio? You always seem to do okay there. Maybe something will happen."
I groaned thinking about the studio. It's always occupied by the slacker students who waited until last minute, or by the students who think it's social hour to talk about their explicit sex lives. When it was deserted, it was a great place to go. However, it's rare. I shrugged. "What the hell. I'll go after class."
"Atta boy!" Spencer slapped me on the back. "Okay, race you to The Caf. Last person there has to buy coffee!" I grinned, nodding my head, accepting the challenge. We always had to have some sort of competition. It keeps the friendship interesting; more than it already was.
******
"I finally beat you!"
The Caf had only a couple students milling about, since it was still early. I welcomed the warmth of the heater on my skin. We walked up to the counter, my wallet feeling slightly lighter. I smiled, defeated, handing the nice woman behind the counter the money for the coffee.
"Yes you did. Do you want a medal?" I took a sip of the warm drink, my whole body spazzing at the sudden warmth. We took a seat near the window, just so we could people watch. Another hobby of ours.
"I do in fact. I think it should read, "Congrats to Spencer, who is the most awesome runner in all of the land. Better than Ryan Ross." He motioned the letters in the air, dramatizing it.
"I don't think that'd fit," I reply, nearly choking on my coffee.
"It could. I would pay extra. Seriously." Spencer took a sip from his black coffee. I shuddered at the thought. I always put cream and a ton of sugar in mine. I had a major sweet tooth. "Hey, slow down, it's hot coffee. It's not meant to be chugged."
I smiled, the top of my mouth burnt, my tongue thankful. I set my coffee down, starting out the window. The campus was starting to wake up. Guys in shorts and short sleeves were running the trail Spencer and I were just on. A couple of them almost fell into the lake while trying to check out a couple of girls who were walking along with their textbooks and portfolios. Their hair and make-up were overdone, their clothing very revealing for the fall. It's not my business how other people dress, it just fascinates me how people can go out of the dorm and think that what they have on is actually flattering.
"Hey, check him out." Spencer pointed to an average height boy with dark hair. His eyes were a dark brown, his lips and nose were an artists dream; full and distinct. His body was slender, a perfect figure. His ass was well...a girl's ass. It looked like he was wearing girl's jeans. I couldn't stop starting at him, even while he was fumbling with the ten million things he was holding. He had a paintbrush between his teeth, two toolboxes and a portfolio; his face had splashes of yellow and red acrylic. As...aesthetically pleasing as he was, he was a mess. He kept dropping something, whether it was his toolbox or his paintbrushes. His portfolio was strapped to his back and kept smacking him on the head when he'd bend down. I could almost hear him cursing under his breath. What particularly caught my eye was a tattoo on his arm of a piano and beautiful flowers adorned the outside of it. Damnit. What was this feeling?... Spencer snapped his fingers in front of my face, lurching me into sudden embarrassment, my cheeks red.
"Dude. I was trying to talk to you this whole time. What the hell?" He gave me a scorching look. Thank god he didn't notice me blushing. After a couple seconds, Spencer went back to what he was saying. "That guy is a mess."
"Yeah," I reply, prying my eyes away from the boy, "He has to be a freshman."
Spencer took another sip of his disgusting coffee and shook his head, smacking his lips.
"Nah, he's a sophomore. He's in my life drawing class."
"How? I thought you couldn't take that until junior year?"
Spencer shrugged his shoulders. "Welp, apparently he has a shit-ton of credits from a community college or something so he's technically a Junior."
"Oh, That's cool, I guess." I took a look at my watch, realizing I had a half hour before class.
"Gotta go, Spence. Got a critique for the first half of the finals in class today." Spencer nodded, getting up from the chair. He walked over with Ryan to the trashcan, throwing away the empty cup. They both opened the doors with a CLANG, making sure everyone knew that they were leaving. Spencer turned Ryan around, and put both of his hands on Ryan's shoulders.
"Just don't burn the other students too bad this time. We don't want one of them to cry again."
"She was being a wuss. You've got to learn how to take a crit--"
"Ryan."
I sighed. "Fine. I won't make another kid cry. Okay?"
"Good." Spencer nudged my arm. "Bonne chance!"
Whatever the hell that meant. I waved at him, my smile subsiding as Spencer moved further and further away. My brain had attached itself to a new subject...who was that boy? And why do I have a sudden urge to want to know?