The water paints are laid out on newspaper across the floor of his bedroom. August sits cross legged in front of his mirror. With his nimble fingers, he frustratingly pulls and pinches at the wet skin on his face, damp from a new set of tears. It has been three days since his argument with his parents, three days since he last saw Theo. His only assignment has yet to be completed.
Draw a self portrait.
How complicated can that be? Everyone owns a mirror. Even if not, you see yourself in the shine of metal or in the glisten of water. But to see one's self is not to know one's self.
His curtains are always drawn closed. Bed perfectly made by himself each morning. Just twelve fiction books on his bookshelf, all works of Charles Dicken. The rest are textbooks from the study, stuffed with notes written by him and him only. His black wool coat hangs on the back of his door. In his closet, there are black blouses and black trousers, a self-assigned uniform. He has a desk too, just a glass of water and the quill with ink.
"I get it now. I'm a coward trapped in my own prison."
The wall behind his bed still has etchings from when he was a kid, digging his brittle fingernails into the paint. Little cats and flowers are only recognizable to the familiar eye.
He is on his third page of water colouring paper. The one two are simple copies of his reflection, as if mimicking the abilities of a camera. Fortunately, the medium comes to him with ease. He easily figured how to mix the colours seamlessly and to not over wet his brush. But the technique is not his enemy, no. His hindrance is himself. He tries again, brush damp with a grey pigment but as he raises the paper, his elbow knocks over the water glass.
All over the floor, a murky blue paints the wood. It's like a tsunami. The wooden city was obliterated by the blue wave! It seeps into the boards, into every groove of the wood, into his clothes, wetting his shoes- onto the final page! On it, the black ink portrait that has yet to dry becomes saturated with the blue water, blending together, bleeding into a barely recognizable splatter of himself. His hands flail in shock.
"Crap, crap, crap!"
He grabs a spare blanket and soaks up the water, but when he picks it up, the water is gone- but not the pigment! Even worse, the blue colouring is still on his clothing, and now he has no more paper left to finish the assignment. In disarray, he stands up with a grand sigh. Everything is wet, stained and blue!
A smile cracks onto his face. Then a slight giggle. Ah, and then a rolling laugh!
"How pathetic!" He laughs, "I've made a fool of myself!"
He wipes his forehead, leaving a streak of blue. He does it again, and again. He paints his face with debris! Colourful he is, his small black world feels the energy of pigment.
•••
-The next day.-
The sun is hidden behind clouds, windows still wet from the afternoon rain. The plants outside the large studio will be happy, at least, for they love the rain. In a month or so, they will give Theo beautiful flowers and sweet fragrance but until then, they give him little green buds and prickly leaves. Even in this primitive stage, he still finds time to appreciate his little garden. Out in the distance, the city looks cleaner than usual, no more black smog. The rain cleans up well.
"How I love the rain," says Theo to himself, in admiration of its capabilities. He sits with a pipe next to his open window. The puff of smoke rises up into the air, up towards his hand painted ceilings.
"Theo, you have a visitor," says his cousin, the dutiful lady from before.
In walks August with quite possibly the largest eyebags Theo has ever seen. It looks as if he has not slept in weeks! In his hands is a bundle of paper. The satchel from before is behind his back. He cannot help but notice the blue stuck under his nails.
"Welcome, August," Theo says, tapping down the rest of his tobacco to extinguish the gentle flame.
His apprentice bows his head, a noticeable shake to his body as he approaches his new master.
"Are you well?" Theo's head tilts.
August is quick to nod, "fine, ye-yes."
"Little liar! I always know a liar. Don't worry, I tell lies too. Don't we all? So, what happened?" Theo talks and walks, his hands flying around as he moves empty bottles around in a search for a spare easel.
"I, um, I wasted p-pa-paper," he trembles with remorse.
With guilt, August passes him the little stack of papers. The one of the bottom is still a little damp, but it seemed to not both Theo.
"May I take a look?"
August Nods.
"Thank you. So the first one, I assume you were using this to acquaintance yourself with water colours? I like how you doodle first with a pencil and go over top with paint, the result is that both mediums are still visible. I tried this too in art school, and then I was called lazy. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that story- I do not think it is lazy to not erase your sketch lines. I like a rugged look. This little bird you drew is adorable! I love birds!" Theo blabbers, somehow piecing together his blobs of paints into evidence of progress.
The next page makes him gasp. August turns red and faces the ground.
"Excellent! It is you! You managed to paint this so quickly, how is that possible?"
Theo raises up August's first attempt at the self portrait. It is painfully simple. Him, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, exactly as seen in the mirror.
August shakes his head.
"What are you saying no to? This is your self portrait, yes?"
His chest hurts. With desperation, he turns up to the ceiling and there, his eyes meet a mural. It is dark, though, not black and instead more like a storm cloud. Scattered throughout are little figures, difficult to make out but with enough focus, can be made out as humans with wings. Angels, likely. Except, on the larger ones toward the centre, it appears as if they are in pain. Limbs are twists and mouths are left gapping. Some wings look ripped right off. What is this, a murder?
"Did you paint this?" Asks August, eyes fixated up above, just like in the library. Talking to a painting is far easier than talking to a man.
"I did. It took me five months, three ladders, and a lot of back pain."
He studies it more. The scene is difficult to make out, but it appears as if they are falling- but from where? The heavens?
"This scene… Lucifer and his followers falling from heaven, I assume?" Says August.
"Yes. I felt rather inspired after a reading of Milton's Paradise Lost. I suppose if they are falling above me, then that only makes where I stand to be hell. I did not plan that out. Do you like it?"
August is drawn by the pain in every face. Even the small fallen angels in the far distance have that detail, eyes bulging out and mouth's wide open. The wind dimples their skin, a rash from the cold blasts painful blisters. Are they scared to fall? A brave rebellion, yet, do they regret it? Did they follow the wrong leader and now must pay for an eternity of suffering, solely because they were mislead? His gaze temporarily returns to Theo, who also looks up with a shy smile.
"It concerns me," answers August.
"I see," is all Theo can muster up.
He looks at the final page, the one that got ruined by the water. He stops talking for a minute, giving it some hard thought. As he touches it, the black stains his thumb.
"I like what you did here, interesting technique. I think this is the most expressive. You took advantage of water paint as a medium."
The soggy, bleeding reflection of himself is held up in the air. Theo looks at it with gleaming eyes, but August sighs.
"I… spilled, wa-water," he looks at Theo again, "n-not a technique."
"It's not a technique? Let me see about that."
From a tap, he fills a bucket half way. There is a painting against one of the walls. It is likely of a cave entrance, though, August is not entirely certain.
"Stand back," Theo warns.
August does so. In one movement, Theo swings the bucket and out pours the water, the paint layers quickly shed away. Theo lowers the bucket and stares in a hum of thought.
"Perhaps I should have poured from above. But the point is that some mistakes are okay. I genuinely like your illustrations, I am impressed."
He shifts awkwardly and shrugs, "Theo… It's b-bad."
"Ah, well, I wouldn't say any art is bad. But, I can tell exactly what you are going through. When an artist first begins to create, they often feel disappointed in themselves. The problem arises that their art does not match the works from which they draw inspiration from, the paintings that got them originally into art. Let me guess: you do not like your self portrait because it is unrevealing, yes?"
August nods, "it's ordinary."
"Every artwork has room for interpretation. I could perform an analysis- but I will spare you on that. Instead, I think I have a better idea."
He pulls out a new canvas, a tall rectangle about the size of his chest. He places it on the easel and begins slathering a thin layer of cream paint.
"Am I p-paint-ting?" August is ready to get up in expectations of a lesson.
"No- no! Sit down! I am going to paint you. Now, take off your shirt!"