Chapter Text
This perfect art was made by Lau and you can see more of her drawings on her Instagram and Twitter @lau4rt
🩰 ISAK 🩰
I discovered dancing relatively early.
When I was very young I had fun moving from side to side and wiggling my little butt, I did it more because grandma loved it, smiled, and clapped for me. I liked to make her happy, she always took care of me and gave me the best hugs, so anything that made her laugh was essential, even if it was trying to wiggle and jump around, but I didn't characterize it as actually dancing.
It didn't matter what I called those movements, the important thing for me was that it made my grandma happy and after she died, I continued "dancing" because I imagined her laughing in the sky and that scene brought me tremendous happiness. I liked to please her, even if she were a little further away from me.
As I danced a lot indoors, the next one to witness my little steps was my mother, who used to say that angels floated in the sky the same way I did on earth and that this was a special gift that Jesus had given me. As it wasn’t my achievement and only a blessing from a third party, I should be thanked for the gift and try harder and harder to be the best dancer, as a way to make God happy for choosing me.
While mom and I prayed, thanking my gift and asking for forgiveness of sins — there were always too many sins to ask for absolution — Terje, my father, used to say that I couldn't keep dancing, that she was turning me into a fag and then I wouldn't go to heaven, but my mother just prayed harder.
Mom and God were always very good friends, I didn't mind, because I felt that she needed someone to talk to, or rather, someone who would listen to her. And so, on Sundays, we both used to go to church. My mother would hold my hand as we walked to attend mass and then on the way back, she would buy me candy and we would play on the playground for a while.
It wasn't always like this, but I remember all the times I came home sweaty and with my stomach aching from the sugar.
A few years later I saw a video of some cute boys dancing and copied the moves without even realizing it. It was nice to try to imitate them, to make my body float, but I wasn't sure if it was like mom's angels, or if it was a gift from God, for me it was just something fun that I didn't want to stop.
When mom saw it, she fixed all her attention on me, sometimes she did that, focused on one thing, and spent months with that in her head, I didn't think it was very normal and after I got older, I realized it wasn't — she had a mental disorder that only it was detected years and years later — but at that moment, I was just happy that my mother wanted to give me all the attention and praise I didn't get from Grandma anymore.
She enrolled me in a dance school at age 8 and sat with the other mothers while she watched. In those minutes I had mom’s full attention and that was why I tried my hardest to be the best dancer I could be, copying the steps the teacher passed and watching mom clap her hands.
At the time, I wrote a little letter to Grandma and addressed it to heaven. I told her I had joined the dance school and mom was proud of me and I hoped she was too. I made two drawings, one in which I jumped, just like I had learned that day, and another of her smiling. Terje intercepted the letter and I was never able to deliver it to the post office.
When the competitions started, I was one of the first to be chosen to participate, I couldn't even believe that I was good enough and that I had the applause of several mothers directed at me. The only problem was that I noticed that my mom was already losing interest, she didn't take me to every class anymore and she didn't always see me float.
It lasted 6 months until she started to distance herself and begin her next project, but at that time mom didn't leave my side, she said that I was the best dancer she's ever seen and that I shouldn't care about what other people said — and with “other people” she was talking about Terje — I should just continue on the path God had laid out for me.
On the days when her presence became scarce, I remembered her beautiful words and grandma's sweet laugh, and that made me continue, even alone, with no one by my side encouraging me, I just focused on what I had already heard and kept floating.
I trained, learned new steps, almost sprained my foot doing the temps levé, and moved more confidently, knowing that what I was doing could, finally, be categorized as dancing, which my mother would like and maybe even would be making grandma proud in heaven, telling to Jesus how her grandson had managed to jump on his tiptoe without falling.
When my high school classmates found out I was dancing it was a little harder to go unnoticed. I was always a shy and quiet kid, trying to be invisible to others because I wasn't like them. Since I was a child, I had already noticed that there was something different about me, I wasn't sure if it was the fact that I danced or if it was because I liked things that were seen as girly.
So, every time the school kids made fun of me, I preferred to remain silent, wondering what Terje would say if he saw all that fuss — the kids’ words at school hurt, but my dad’s were even worse — so I tried harder to be invisible around them, even because the games of wrestling and football were too boring, I preferred to dance, paint in my notebooks and imagine parallel universes where everyone had a pet unicorn.
After the 6 months that mom paid attention to me and the contest I had to win, I chose, much to Terje's displeasure, that I would keep dancing and by a miracle of God I was able to — maybe my mom wasn't wrong about Jesus and his friends.
The rumors that I was a fag who danced followed me until I graduated from high school. It was horrible to hear what those people said about me, it hurt to be diminished just by the sexuality they had chosen for me, I wasn't even sure if that was what I was, a faggot.
I spent the entire time in high school without kissing anyone, neither girls nor boys, because no one wanted to get close to me and be a victim of all the bullying I received, I didn't even have friends to endure high school with. How could I have known if I was a fag if I'd never experienced anything? If I never had the chance to hug a boy and a girl and see which one felt better.
I didn't get a chance to analyze it and the choice had already been made for me, at 8 years old, because I twirled around while mom clapped.
When words were too ugly and stuck inside my mind, I liked to go to the dance studio. As I had been studying there for some years, they didn't care when I wanted to spend some time in one of the rooms. And often there was even an audience when they knew I was practicing. I liked to pretend I couldn't see Mom and Grandma, but they were right there in the middle.
Dancing had become a way of getting all my troubles out of my mind because I knew I couldn't tell Mom or Terje. She wouldn't know how to handle it and he hurt me with worse words than anyone in high school could hurl at me. So, I was invisible, at school and home, dancing in the studio and counting in my painting notebook how many days it took to graduate and get out of that bubble of sadness they had built for me.
During those times, my hours were occupied with training, studying, and reading. And when the classes were finally over, I had already passed the Kunsthøgskolen and with the money, from the contests and what grandma had left, I was able to apply. I thought it was another miracle from God, and I wasn't expecting any other after this one.
The dance school was everything I imagined.
There I found people more like me, there were boys openly out of the closet, who almost were throwing glitter on the floor when they passed, like Eskild, who shared a room with me, I also met some non-binary people, which until then I didn't know existed in the city, and finally, there were pretty girls who weren't mean and just wanted to dance.
Finally, I was where I felt most comfortable, and yet I was still invisible and mute. After many, many years of only talking when it was essential, I realized that I could no longer hold a decent conversation with Eskild or greet Eva as she walked toward me with a giant smile and an invitation to join them at the bar after practice.
I never went with them, I couldn't interact with anyone, and if it weren't for Eskild, I didn't think anyone would know I existed. But when I was dancing, when my body floated like an angel, I felt that I could show my true feelings, I could demonstrate everything my silenced heart wanted to say and vent some of the frustrations that my mouth no longer remembered how to express.
So, I dance.
I danced every day, I danced more than my peers, I danced when everyone else was at the bar drinking, I danced until the blood started coming out of my toes, and I finally slept with my heart a little lighter and my head quieter.
It might not be exactly what I envisioned for my life, or, maybe I hadn't envisioned a miracle big enough that I could dance and not be under the same roof as the person who silenced me the most. Sometimes I thought that living away from home would be livelier and with more friends, or a friend. But that was all too much for me.
In the first month of studying dance, I found a cute place near the Kunsthøgskolen and decided to go in and have whatever my money could buy. I would order the smallest cup of tea they had and sit down to enjoy my independence — or the possibility of being in a coffee shop without feeling any pressure, staying there just because I wanted to.
And then I saw a guy my height, with dark hair and thick, thick eyebrows, alongside two friends, they ordered coffee and sat a few tables in front of me, always talking and laughing. I knew I was being a little weird, but I enjoyed watching them. I saw them having fun and I wanted to be a part of it, even though I knew I wouldn't fit in there.
So, I went back the next week and the next to watch my favorite story, Eyebrows, and Friends. I liked to imagine in my parallel universe what it would be like to be there with them, to talk without feeling pressured, without being afraid of what I might say, and, even more, what they would answer. I loved that universe.
One day I ended up arriving later than I had planned and I didn't find them there, however, I saw a person I had never noticed before. The girl who always sold the smallest cup of tea wasn't working, and I had to talk to the most handsome man I'd ever seen in my life — I thought maybe I didn't need to analyze my sexuality too much because the moment I saw that one giant blonde with perfect lips man I knew I was attracted to him, and that I liked boys like him.
"Hi," I said very quietly, hoping he would hear.
“Good afternoon! Is it good afternoon or good night?” He answered looking at the cafeteria clock. “Good night, I'm Even, what do you want today? We have several types of coffee and teas, and also there are going to be some super delicious chocolate cakes in 5 minutes getting out of the oven, it's my favorite, do you like it?” He smiled and I was hypnotized for a few seconds.
I knew this was all just so the customers would leave happy and tip the cutest boy in all of the parallel universes — maybe I should tip extra, I thought as I fumbled in my pocket for some coins.
“Just a small chamomile tea to go,” I said softly, digging through my wallet for the money, afraid that if I looked into his eyes, I'd lose myself again.
" Tea coming out, to…?” He looked at me.
“Isak.”
“Isak!” my name sounded right in Even's mouth.
I waited while he finished making my drink, and bounced from foot to foot. Even though I was the only one there, the blonde wrote my name on the cup, gave me another wonderful smile, and handed me the tea.
“Thanks,” I replied and started walking out of the cafeteria because I was too scared to drink there as usual.
I went back to my room with that boy in my head, the way he smiled, his perfect hair in a pompadour that Elvis Presley would envy, his deep voice, and the long, long, ringed fingers handing me the cup. And then I remembered to look at the tea and saw that he hadn't just written my name.
Issy, I hope you come back here on my shift more often ;)
🎨 EVEN 🎨
I liked working the night shift, I preferred having the freedom to sleep all day and wake up an hour before my time at the cafeteria and then when I left at 10 pm I could look for a club and just have fun, drink a lot, kiss someone and maybe have sex or come home and draw until the sun comes up. Meeting new people and spending the night with them was great, but painting, drawing, and creating images were even more enjoyable.
Art for me has always been a way of getting out of my head and putting my feelings outside. Sometimes I made beautiful drawings with all the colors I could create and other times I used only shades of black and gray. The vast majority weren’t very colorful.
When I was a little child, I heard from a psychologist friend of my mother's explaining that my dark paintings meant that I had a lot inside me, that that represented excess; I thought he was wrong, for me the use of the dark color was because I needed black to compose the drawing and nothing else.
Whenever I spent a season with only dark colors or very colorful paintings, I thought about that conversation and wondered if there was anything real in it. I didn't feel full, perhaps, on the contrary, I had the impression that my heart was empty — and I was fine with that.
The misunderstood drawings weren't the only inexplicable attitude for my parents. I also liked to stay up all night, I always liked it, they didn't understand why I couldn't sleep all night even though I knew I had class the next day or because I was waiting for the house to be dark and silent to start drawing, reading and even doing school activities.
In general, they didn’t understand me.
Because they didn't understand me, they preferred to just dictate the rules to me, especially my mother. I should stay at home all day instead of hanging out with the friends I’ve used made on the street — yes, most of my friendships weren't from high school and just people I met when I went out —; I also had to study to pass a university, but not just any, I needed a degree from UiO or some college as important, alongside a course that would support me in the future; and from time to time my mother would ask why I never had a girlfriend.
She liked to control everything so that my life looked perfect and standard, just as the two of them tried to make theirs look that way too, no matter what the truth was. Therefore, my friends should be of the same social class as mine, the courses I would choose would be subjects that would earn money, and the girlfriend requirement was to be female.
The fact was that I didn't get a girlfriend, but I met someone when I was in high school, his name was Anders. He was from the basketball team, had strong arms, very short hair, and was almost my size, besides, he was one of the most popular boys in high school, I just didn't understand why he wanted to date me, no matter the reason, it was my first relationship with someone of my gender and the last romantic involvement I would ever want in my life.
I’ve always known I wasn't straight and after some internet research, I realized I was getting more and more comfortable with the pansexual label. For me, labels were a way for us to come out of the invisibility, to show that we existed and we were proud of ourselves. The moment I understood myself, I told my friends, Mika and Elias, and I even got a pansexual button from the first one, that I love it and wore it on all my clothes because my parents didn't know what it meant.
My boyfriend on the other hand didn't like any of this. He was still in the closet, so we didn't have any kind of contact within the school staying away from each other. And even from afar, he had ways of controlling me, which at the time I thought was care, but later I learned what it meant.
When we were together, I started to wonder, trying to understand if what I felt for girls was really sexual attraction or not. After that, Anders made me question other things in my life, like if I was an artist, what value everything I liked had, and ultimately whether I deserved real love or was lucky to earn his crumbs of affection.
With pressure from all sides to focus on a non-arts course and all my sexuality analysis, I decided to talk to my parents about being pansexual, I wanted to get something off my back, not having to always be so full of myself — okay, maybe the psychologist was a little right.
As soon as I share this with Anders, he told me he was against it, as he hadn't said anything to anyone about his sexuality and that was reason enough for me to keep quiet. Besides that, he didn't want my parents to get him out of the closet to his family, but even though I had a lot of problems with them I knew they wouldn't care very much about passing on the news that my boyfriend was gay. Not to mention that it wasn't good to keep telling everyone we were together, there was no reason for them to do that.
But when I got something into my head, I ended up doing it one way or another. I didn't regret it, really, I just wish I had an idea of how much things would change after I spoke.
I told my parents at dinner, explained that I was seeing someone, who was very good to me and treated me well, and we started dating. They were silent listening and even stopped eating, as soon as they did this, I noticed the mistake I had made.
“And that person is a man,” I finished telling my news.
“A man, my son?” my mother asked with wide eyes.
"Yeah, Mom, I'm dating a guy!" I said raising my voice a little.
My parents were shocked and went back to being silent.
To say the mood was bad was an understatement. I wish I had told them, but I hoped they didn't even care about it, who would have cared about that in the year we were in?
“Son,” Dad started to speak. “Are you sure it's a good idea to date this guy?”
“Anders! And yes, I'm absolutely sure of that, Dad. I love him and he loves me, what difference does it make if he's a man?”
"But my son...”
“Even,” my mother said, interrupting my father, “don't you think it's too much to go around telling everyone that you have a relationship with a man? I don't know, son, we'd better keep this sort of thing to ourselves. Maybe you're exaggerating, I know you like to be different, but isn't that too much? What if your colleagues don't like having someone like that around?”
"I don't care one bit what they think, I don't even care if you agree or not," I lied, getting up from the table. “You should love me the way I am and not ask me to hide that I'm a pansexual in love with another man!” I shouldn't have chosen that word, because they didn't know what it meant and they were even more confused, looking at each other.
I ran upstairs to my room and started crying as I packed a suitcase and called Anders. I heard my parents coming closer, but I locked the door to pack my things in peace.
“And,” he said tearfully when he finally picked up.
'What is it now?'
“I told my parents”.
“You did what, Even?” he yelled and I had made the second mistake of the night.
“I told them, babe, that we're dating,” I replied gently, trying to calm him down. "Remember when I said I was going to do this?"
"And do you remember that I told you not to tell? Sometimes you're so dumb, everyone will know by now.”
“They won't,” I cried more “my parents won't tell, I just wanted them to know, I wanted everyone to know that we're together.”
"Yeah, and I said I didn't want that, didn't I? It's over, Even, we can't hook up anymore. Don't even think about getting close to me in high school.
“Anders, no…” and that's how my first boyfriend broke up with me.
I called a few more times while crying and packing my life, but he didn't answer and after the third attempt I had the impression that I was blocked. With what little dignity I had left, I walked out of my room, listening to my mother screaming and my father following my every step, and I decided, the moment the door closed, that I wouldn't open my heart anymore.
So, I left my parents' house, without support, without a boyfriend, and trying to glue the pieces of me that were thrown along the way, some were still at home, others in Anders' hands, but those I could find, I tried to reassemble inside myself. Some time passed and I realized that I was pansexual and liked to draw, but for the rest, I was still not sure about it.
Since that day I haven't spoken to my parents or Anders, and I haven't had any interest in dating anyone else. It took me a long time to realize that that relationship was horrible and maybe toxic, and I was very afraid that someone else might do the same thing to me like him, taking my love for drawing again, so I thought it would be better if I didn't get involved with anybody.
It was for that and other reasons that I’ve left the house before most of my friends before a normal person would before I had a place to stay or some money in my pocket, but I didn't like to think about those days, they didn't were very easy and I had to sleep at Mika's house until I managed to rent the smallest man-made apartment (or that's how I saw my new home), but I had lived here for a while and with lots of ink, drawings, and goodwill this place became my favorite in Oslo.
I felt like I finally had a place where I could be myself, without worrying about anything at all — other than paying all the bills that adult life threw at me.
The problem with being independent so early on was that I had to give up certain things, like going to college. When I was still in high school, I wanted to study art, to find out what else I could do besides drawing, but without an economic miracle, I wouldn't be able to. I also wanted to travel the world, see what else was out there, meet new cultures, talk to other people and find beautiful things. But then again, I knew that would be impossible with my paychecks as a bartender.
None of that mattered now.
My whole life had changed and I either accepted it or cried forever, so I looked for the good things I could focus on, like working nights and kissing people at the club, or strawberry chocolate cake, or, most importantly, shy cute boys who came to buy tea.
Isak, the tea boy, was the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my 21 years of life, with those giant green eyes and an imperceptible smile made the rest of my night go by way too slow and he was in every scene in my imagination. Most of the people who I hooked up with were outgoing and loud, but there was something about that quiet boy, who even though he was almost as tall as I was, made himself smaller and shy.
So, I had to write a note on his cup, hoping he'd come back and let me flirt with him, but nothing happened, and by the time my shift was over, I was dying to cash out all the flirting I'd accumulated during work.
I decided to go to Indieseksuell and look for a shy blonde so I could have fun for the night, but I couldn't find it, even because I wanted Isak. I wanted to run my hand over his face, try his lips and squeeze that little ass that looked like the emoji of peach. So, after hooking up with two people, I went home alone.
I drew for a few hours, made a landscape of the Operahuset that I had found on Instagram, and started a sketch without much pretense of being anything real, but the more I scribbled, the more I noticed that the tea boy was appearing on the paper and after messing with it a little with watercolor, I managed to get the color of his eyes and painted them, going to sleep being able to look one last time at Isak, even if it wasn't the real one and even if it wasn't as beautiful.