Chapter Text
It is difficult being the cousin of a genius. Physically, we look rather alike aside from a few obvious points of difference, one being my more rounded face and the other being my failure to achieve the Aphrodite-like figure of my elder. For a long time I believed that we were, in the realm of the soul, of a rather similar make and model, but our differences in that aspect have started to become apparent to me as well. Nevertheless, the Sunomiya name has carried me well. When it is said aloud among the more Avante-Garde students of my University there is invariably a wave of whispers - “Sunomiya? You mean like SANA SUNOMIYA?”. My cousin has achieved quite a splash in the world of art already, her mastery of the human form in both painting and sculpture has been praised by all, and a few of her works have even been hung in museums. This has led to a somewhat embarrassing situation for myself, as I happen to be the subject of one of her most famous paintings. In it, I lay nude, holding a mirror, my lips pursed with vanity, my hair tied back in a bow. I am quite sure at least some of those whisperers must have recognized me by now, but none have asked me about it to my face.
Like my cousin, I believe that life should be put to the service of something higher than itself. It is my conviction that the great artists and great philosophers of the world are united in this aim. I am unsure of what yet, but I wish nothing more than to dedicate myself to some overriding conviction, some higher purpose, truth, justice, heritage, beauty or love. I enjoy painting, but given that it is unlikely I will surpass my cousin and find a place in the halls of World-History by following a path already tread by a member of my own family, I have attempted to broaden my horizon. Yet despite my openness to this sort of purpose, one has yet to decisively present itself to me. This indecision as to what higher end I’d like to pursue exactly is probably why I ended up majoring in Art while minoring in Philosophy and Mathematics.
My closest friend at this University is Hachiouji. He is a tall, thin boy who is still, despite much development and maturation, rather awkward and twitchy. I have known him since junior high, having always worked alongside him in my artistic pursuits. I have a few classes with him. We often sit together and sketch various things around campus.
“How did you do that?” he asked me once, pointing to the way I had drawn the head of the statue. I showed him the technique I had picked up recently. “Huh. Never even occurred to me. I used to teach you and now you’re the one showing me how it's done!” he chuckled.
“It's just something my cousin taught me.” I said.
“Well, even so.” he said. The way he said it slightly disappointed me. I wanted to make something original. Something bold. Something unconnected with Sana.
Outside of class, I can hardly ever get a hold of Hachiouji. He claims to be busy. I believe him of course, remembering quite well the incident of last week.
I had just finished a truly immaculate painting, one of my best ever. I had been trying to depart from the realistic Greco-Roman style my cousin imprinted onto me and had thus sailed off in the direction of abstract imagery. In his book, The Critique of Judgement, the Philosopher Immanuel Kant describes beauty as a free play of the faculties in which the understanding tries and fails to subsume the sensory qualities of the art under a single concept. Music, being total free-play set free from representation, was thus the highest form of beauty, as well as the most contentless. Moved by this I put on a record by Chopin, took out my brush and produced a haze of black marks, curving red lines, sharp blue corners, adding in three-dimensional depth where I felt like it, letting an orange line curl in bushy crowds of loops until I had finally produced something that looked like a cross between an ink stain, an octopus, a sunset and a grape-vine. Somehow it captured the twinkling, rolling piano perfectly, seeming to flow like sand through fingers, boil and bulge like bubbling liquid. I knew immediately I had to show it to Hachiouji, so not even waiting to let the painting dry I stood up in an excited hurry and snatched my phone from the wall. I refuse to use a cell-phone, I find that it is harmful to peace-of-mind, an impediment to my artistic and philosophical thinking and a constant annoyance. Instead I have gotten a land-line phone installed in my dorm. The company man looked at me strangely when I requested it, but nevertheless gave me quite a good price. I quickly called Hachoiji, having set his number to “1” on the speed dial, but found he did not answer. I called him again. Then a third time. I left a voice-mail. Then I sat back down on my stool for a few minutes and waited for him to call me back. But he didn’t. Finally, unable to restrain myself any longer, I put on my light gray wool coat and red hunting-hat with the ear flaps, buttoned my blouse up to the highest button and grabbed my painting, preparing to make the trek to Hachiouji’s dorm. I jumped down the stairs two at a time.
Hachiouji lived in a building just a short walk up the hill, but with the awkwardness of carrying the painting as the wind tugged at it without sticking my fingers in the wet paint, it became a difficult journey. I felt like I could be dragged off course, like my painting would serve as a sail and pull me into the air. The wind kicked up spirals of dry dead leaves that swirled and curled in miniature tornadoes before settling back to the earth. The sky above was gray and featureless, impossible to even make out the outlines of the clouds, a single sheet of vapor. My mind drifted to the journey of Odysseus, the Greek hero, and all of the perilous challenges he faced on his way. At least, I thought, he had the warm weather of the Mediterranean as company the whole way, for even Odysseus would have wanted to give up if he had been faced with cold wind as bone-chilling as this. Finally I came to the dorm. The woman at the desk didn’t bother to question me or my intentions, absorbed in a Sudoku puzzle she scratched at with her pen. I took the dingy elevator up to the third floor and rushed down the hall to Hachiouji’s room, still carrying the painting awkwardly. The door was slightly ajar, not quite closed, seemingly shut incompletely in some kind of haste. In my excitement and my reluctance to set down the painting, I failed to consider knocking and rushed in.
Three things happened in about the duration of a single second. Firstly, I ascertained the scene at play. Though my vision was partially obscured by the small amount of light in the room and a veritable haze of sheets and other bedding it was clear that Hachiouji was in a state of undress and more than that, in the embrace of his girlfriend, a thoroughly tanned girl named Nagatoro who had her arms slung around his bare back. I had never seen both sides of her tan-lines before. The second thing happened when her eyes met mine and then widened in shock and horror, followed quickly by an unbefittingly maiden-like yelp of surprise. The third thing was by far the most disastrous. My heart still stings with regret and embarrassment remembering it. In my hasty and impulsive retreat, I lost my grip on the painting and in a regrettable gesture pulled it close to my chest - pressing the still wet paint directly against my coat.
“OUT! OUT! GET OUT!” Nagatoro shouted at the top of her lungs. I numbly stepped out of the room. “AND CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR!” she shouted again. I followed her instruction, pushing the door shut until it properly closed this time, getting one final peek of Hachiouji turned a shade of vermillion red.
I gazed at the ruined painting and felt tears threatening to well up in my eyes. Its subtle coloring had been smudged, its composition utterly desecrated. It bore no likeliness to the beautiful thing it had been minutes ago. I cursed myself and my carelessness and stood accessing the damage for a few minutes. I was jolted out of my stupor when Hachiouji stepped out into the hall with me, now hastily dressed.
“Um, what are you doing here, Hana?” he said. He fixed the glasses he hadn't worn since high-school. He always did that when he was nervous.
“I…” I began but I could hardly take my eyes off my poor painting to look at his face. “I just wanted to show you my painting.” I said as seriously as I could.
“Well, uh, next time you should knock. I was, um, busy.” he said. “Uh, is that a new coat?”
I looked down at my coat and saw that the wet paint had left its mark, imprinting a pale impression of my masterpiece across my breast.
“It's not.” I said. He looked slightly taken aback at my response. Eventually he gathered his wits and composed himself again.
“Well, I can still take a look at it if you want?” he said weakly.
“Alright.” I pushed open the door again, strolling as confidently as I could manage past a newly clothed, cross-armed Nagatoro who refused to meet my eyes until I came to Hachioji's easel near the window, and set down the painting in the light. Hachiouji's slightly panicked expression suggested he had not intended to invite me in, but it was too late to do anything about that now. He sat down and studied the painting with me for a few moments. I could tell he didn't quite know what to make of it. Nagatoro’s eyes went to my chest, then to the painting.
“So what’s it supposed to be?” Nagatoro said after a moment.
“It’s not supposed to be anything in particular, she’s going for a more abstract style.” Hachiouji said, studying the painting carefully, with a slightly puzzled look on his face.
“Indeed.” I said, crossing my arms. “Have you read any Immanuel Kant?”
“It looks like she threw up on the canvas.” Nagatoro muttered under her breath. Nobody said anything for a moment.
“You can’t say that about someone's painting, Hayase!” Hachiouji said.
“W-well it's true!” she said, doubling down.
“It’s a rude thing to say! Hana is…” he trailed off. “...trying really hard.” he eventually finished.
“Well if she didn’t want my opinion she shouldn’t have barged in!” Nagatoro snapped back defensively.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to.” Hachiouji said.
“Why are you always defending her?”
“I just-” he sputtered. I picked up my painting and made my way to the door with all my remaining tact.
“I’ll be going. I apologize for barging in. I can tell when I’m not wanted.” I said, bowing my head slightly.
“You know, I don’t think you can.” Nagatoro said mockingly.
“Hayase!” Hachiouji said almost pleadingly.
The sounds of their argument faded from earshot as I raced down the stairs and darted out of the door of the lobby. I was tired of carrying the ruined painting so I threw it into the dumpster around the side of the building with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. I began my walk home. It was a minor setback, really. I could just paint another one. In fact, I might not even bother, given that it had not been all that good in the first place looking at it soberly. Really now, what had I been thinking? I stopped in my tracks and simply stood in place, cringing at my own behavior to an almost physically painful degree. I got back to my dorm, hung up my coat and hat and threw myself bodily onto the bed. I grasped the sheets by the fistfull and tried to warm myself, as well as banish any trace of shame.
After a few minutes I got up and went over to the heater and tried to fiddle with the dials. It was an old machine, mostly blowing luke-warm air that smells heavily of burning dust. I turned it up as high as it could go and went back to bed. I got up and paced around the room for a few minutes. I decided to make some tea and set up a flask of water on my hot-plate. I sat and watched it begin to boil, the bubbles forming on the curved surface glass and rising to meet the air. I knocked on the side of my head with my knuckles like I would knock on a door and let out a long exhale.
In his book Being and Nothingness, Jean-Paul Sartre discussed the nature of Will and Freedom. For most of our lives, we go about our actions without a second thought, pressed up against the glass, unreflective, non-thetic as it were. It is only occasionally, in contemplation or the presence of great disturbance, we pull back and gain conscious awareness of ourselves and our minds. My problem, I believe, is that while I am a perfectly sensible person in my conscious mind, when I am acting without reflection, when I am simply in the world directly, unmediated by conscious considerations, I am a thoroughly foolish and despicable person. If only I could force my calcified habitual life into the light of conscious awareness at all times. Perhaps that is the state of being enlightened, or of being a genius. I am sure I have not reached it yet, but I am determined to do it one day.