Work Text:
“To amateurs, art is a silly way for others to dump their emotions onto a canvas. You’re no longer an amateur. Advanced art is not an expression but a reflection of the beauty in the world. It must remain factual.”
Those lectures from my mentor are a nuisance. He isn’t even here and yet I can hear him so clearly. I don’t even need a mentor, but Father insisted on hiring one so he could have a sort of spectator to ensure I wouldn’t create something deemed unmarketable. And so here I am, staring at an autumn forest I’ve created with my worn brush and expensive paints in shades I’m sick of seeing.
Must everything be so joyous? If art is supposed to be so factual, then surely I should just be pasting a leaf to my canvas and slapping a price tag on it. And last time I checked, the world wasn’t this colorful. Or at least not as colorful as it once was.
I rise from the stool in front of my easel, admiring my work. It’s an eyesore, but I’ll make a fortune from it.
Bam, bam, bam!
“EDDIE!”
The usually cheerful voice greets me with rage. But I don’t look up from the portrait.
“Not now. Go away.”
“I just knocked ten times and you have the audacity to tell me to leave!?”
I must have been too immersed in my work to notice. If only I cared.
The doorknob rattles so I return my focus on my art for there’s no use in trying to open a locked door. That is, until you have the key.
I hear the deadbolt turn. That’s one way to get my attention.
“Wh-? How did you-!?”
Although my intruder’s behind the door, I can hear that cheeky grin, “Supper’s ready. I stole the key from a maid.”
I sigh, “You know I don’t join you at the table. It’s a waste of time.”
The door opens and in walks the melodramatic blonde, only age twelve, who shares my short temper, but not my maturity. Much like most people with younger siblings, I see her as a nuisance. But a nuisance I would die for.
“That’s why I brought supper to you,” her mischief-filled grin softened and she raised a silver tray piled with more food than I think’s humanly possible to eat in one sitting.
“Maple,” I started. “I appreciate it, but I don’t have time to eat. I’m on a tight schedule here.”
She scowled, “Oh c’mon, Edgar! You haven’t eaten all day! It’ll get dark out before you know it!”
Rubbish, this is a ploy to get me to eat! …Or so I thought. A glance out the window proved me wrong. Had I really been painting for that long?
“I… suppose I didn’t notice.”
“Eat the food, you nitwit.” she shoves the platter towards me.
Well I’ll admit… it smells delicious. I take the food and sit at my desk across the room.
“Why didn’t you just have Ban send it to me?”
My kid sister sits on the stool in front of the easel, facing away from the portrait.
“I wanted to make sure you’d actually eat it. You could’ve just ordered Mr. Ban to leave and you’d continue painting your dumb flowers. But you can’t get rid of me, I’m no servant! Now take a bite. I promise it’s good, I didn’t spit on it or anything.”
As if adding that would make me more willing to eat, but her well natured laugh proved she was only joking. So with that, I began to eat a small portion. But it wasn’t enough to meet Maple’s standards seeing as she was still here. What a pain she can be.
After what felt like hours, all that was left was crumbs. I slid the platter aside and lowered my head, letting out a pained groan. I felt as if one more bite would kill me but as much as I’d hate to admit it, I didn’t want to see Maple upset.
I rolled my head over to look at her. Through my overgrown bangs I could see her looking at me with a proud smile, not too different from my mother’s. But I wouldn’t say it doesn’t suit her. It may be pathetic that my kid sister has taken up a motherly role, but we both know I’d starve to death without her. I’m very grateful for what she does for me but I can’t help but feel guilty. She should be spending more time with Shezo but instead she’s become a caretaker for her brother— who’s seven years older than her for crying out loud.
I sit up. The least I can do is say, “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me. I’m only returning the favor.”
That’s right. She was so young when Mother died. I didn’t have to, we have servants after all, but I felt the need to. I wanted her to be as healthy as possible. She couldn’t meet the fate of her elder sister. As much as I would’ve loved for her to meet Ella, I couldn’t have her do so in Heaven.
At only eight years old, I did my best to care for her. I helped to feed her, I played with her, I rocked her to sleep. When she was a toddler, I lost interest, it became too taxing anyway. So I did my part through my paintings. I began to sell them with the help of Father.
What a mistake. Now I’m practically a slave to him. I only wanted to support Maple, but my Father enjoyed the luxuries. My natural gift for art wasn’t enough to him, so he hired mentors to guide me to develop more profitable portraits. I don’t mind anymore. Now we’re no longer a laughing stock.
The noble Valden family shouldn’t be short on luxuries, but after the deaths, we lost a lot. With my talent, I restored our glory and we’re richer and as titled as ever. I have admirers who worship my pieces. They don’t have any understanding of what art truly is and the gifts I receive from them are laughable, but I deserve the recognition. And even the most ridiculous gifts are usually appreciated by Maple, such as the cat I was given, whom she named Mary.
I didn’t take care of Maple for long. Shezo and his family started helping when she turned five, the very age Ella was when she left us. All I did was pay respects to her and Mother through ensuring Maple wouldn’t have the same fate and now I’ve become an arrogant workaholic worshipped by empty-brained commoners.
The last thing Maple has to do for me is return a favor I had no interest in giving. I didn’t ask for Ella or Mother to leave us and I didn’t ask for her to be born solely to make sure the Valden bloodline wouldn’t end if something were to happen to me.
In only seconds, I felt all of these thoughts overwhelm me. God damn it, Maple, I was perfectly fine earlier.
My expression must have changed since she visibly panicked.
“Sorry, Eddie! Er, you- Your painting is-“
“I’m fine.”
I hadn’t meant to show I cared, because I don’t. That’s all behind me.
“But…” she started, but even she knows there’s no use in pushing me to talk about it when I really, truly couldn’t care less about the ones that left us. She goes quiet.
“Tch… You might as well leave. I did what you wanted, didn’t I? Get out.”
But she didn’t budge. “Your painting is so lifeless,” she frowned.
“If you had anything in that head of yours, you’d know it’s because I don’t put life into my paintings anymore. It’s a waste of time. I can’t change my style or my reputation will be tarnished.”
“Blah, blah, blah, everything’s a waste of time,” she mocks me, poorly imitating my voice and making sassy gestures.
“I do not sound like that.”
She grinned and returned to using her own voice, “You did before your voice changed.”
I couldn’t help but smile in amusement. I rolled my eyes, “Don’t remind me. That never happened.”
“Yes it did! And so does the whole ‘waste of time’ shtick. You say that so often, it’s becoming your catchphrase.”
“Well since you’re suddenly the expert,” I cross my arms and smile, indicating that while I’m challenging her, it’ll be a friendly challenge. “Tell me. How do I make this portrait more appealing?”
“Hmm…” clearly not expecting this, she stares at my forest, puzzled. “How about some rain?”
“Rain? That’s dreadful. Storms drain the color from the world.”
“Well I like rain!”
“What could possibly be interesting about-“
“Maple Valden! What are you doing here, young lady?” I didn’t even see him enter the room, but there was my father, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Fatherrr!” she whined. “I never get to see him anymore, I missed him!”
“You don’t get to distract him. He’s a busy young man.”
“He hasn’t left his studio all day!” she stands up, knocking the stool over. Her face begins heating up. Great. If I don’t do something she’ll say something stupid.
“Wait,” I chime in. “I asked her to come. I just didn’t say anything because I know you’d disapprove.”
He seemed to consider this for a moment but I got the usual response, “Edgar, you’re a smart man. You know you don’t have time for distractions.”
Maple huffs and Father turns to her, “Maple, sweetheart, that was very kind of you to listen to your brother, but I’m the head of the household and you don’t get to disobey me.”
He pats her on the back and guides her out of the room.
“My apologies, Edgar. I’d hate for you to be interrupted. I’ve taught her better than this.“
“Have you now?” I turn away from him, facing the window. “You say that as if you’ve taught her to be obedient out of respect for me.”
“Of course I respect you, Edgar.”
“Because I’m your source of income.”
He goes silent. That’s because he knows I’m right.
“Hmph. Nothing to say?” I still can’t look him in the eyes. “I guess that proves me correct, as always.”
“Edgar… Son-“
“And you don’t even scold me for saying such. If Maple were to say my exact words you’d kill her, but since I’m the noble heir and she’s just a stand-in, I get off the hook. The only way I could even come close to being your son is through the brown hair I inherited from you. And you know what else I inherited? The fact that we’re both greedy scumbags who will never have enough, that’s what!”
I’m again given silence. It was wrong for me to say that, but why should I give him sympathy. Why should I give anyone sympathy?
He whispers a small apology and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving me to think about my sister’s words.
What was it my mentor said? Factual, factual, factual… If I wanted, if I could, I’d like to paint what I know is factual. What Maple knows is factual, since surely this is what she meant when she made her suggestion. The world is a bleak disarray of tragedy, but not devoid of happiness.
Though it’s useless to think of what wouldn’t appeal to my admirers, I listen to my sister. A rainstorm is realistic, after all. Yes, a rainstorm… The kind that leaves you drenched, filled with mud puddles that soil your expensive flats, heavy rain that fogs up your glasses and makes your hair look stupid, but the kind that makes you feel free. The kind that brings the florists from the market relief as they watch their gardens produce bountiful plants that they’ll soon share with the community. The kind that you can’t help but smile at when you see small children giggling as they splash around.
I stop myself from this daydreaming. Do I dare disobey my father? Do I even have the mental energy to listen to his scoldings tomorrow when he sees the finished painting? Of course I do, I’m Edgar Valden.
Without realizing, I had unconsciously painted over the fine clear sky that once oversaw the forest, an ugly aura of a storm replacing it. It truly is dreadful. However, I use a thin stroke of white to create a bolt of lightning in the distance. Wouldn’t it be a pretty sight from afar? I granted myself the permission to continue with my own vision of the final product. I can deal with the consequences later.
The same philosophy is used to create a little scene of a woman and young girl, frolicking about in front of the trees hand in hand.
You’d think it’d be tragic to view upon the woman. Her face holds a wear of hysteria. It’s as if the years of bearing a role she didn’t want to play has left a scar. Her down-turned mouth irreversible with age and ceaseless melancholic episodes. And yet she’s a proud and content mother, even if she may be an unhappy wife.
You’d think it’d be tragic to view upon the small weak child. She’s pale and sickly, she doesn’t have much time left. And yet her expression holds more joy than one could comprehend.
I know it’s wrong for me to feel angry at them. They had no control over what happened and I thought I did. I had convinced myself that if my paintings were good enough, their health would improve, but I was proven wrong twice. I never want to be proven wrong again.
It’s silly, but wherever they are, I hope they’re playing in the rain. I hope they are granted the fun they were robbed of. I hope they have more freedom than the false sense of it this family tries to keep. I hope they feel more alive than they did when they were.
I rise from the stool once again to admire the portrait. I smile. Maple really does look like a young version of Mother and Ella’s brown hair would turn a fine auburn color in the Summer just like mine. Mother’s elegant presence expressed through her femininity lives through my own mannerisms and Ella would have loved to have Maple as a playmate with their shared adventurous spirits.
Perspective is so important in art, so why haven’t I noticed it sooner? You really can tend to be naive, Edgar. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to realize it, but it’s better than to have never known.
They never truly left me.