True Art

Chapter Five

MATTHEW'S POV

Yellow ochre was my colour. No painting could be started without a thick coating of the warm hue. I had just finished a second coat on a new canvas when I realized the time. If I didn't stop what I was doing now, I'd be late to meet Remi. I stepped back from the canvas and looked down to a smaller one that was resting on the floor against the legs of the easel. I'd had a productive morning, which was very welcome since my painting mojo had sort of disappeared the last few weeks.

Between couch surfing and the overwhelming sense of doom, I had been suffering some serious painter’s block. Creative block had never happened in art school. Everything was different back then. There was something about college that allowed for a sense of hope and optimism that wasn't as easily available as the years went on. Sure, I was still young, but as each year passed and real success eluded me, I lost a little bit more hope.

The vast number of rejections I had gotten over the years also didn't help. Being an artist was hard, sometimes even soul-crushing. It was even more difficult when well-meaning family members repeatedly told you to quit.

My mother liked to text me at least once a week and remind me that being a starving artist wasn't romantic.

Mom: It's not a sign of failure to get a teaching job, Matt. Your cousin has a fine job at St. Columbus and she’s on good money too.

Me: I'm not qualified to be a teacher. That would mean I’d need to go back to college.

Mom: Well then, what were you studying in college for if you can’t teach?

Me: My art degree. To be an artist. Remember?

Mom: I'm just saying that I don't think it'd be a bad idea at this stage to have a backup. Or some money. You’re not getting any younger. And #YOLO.

Me: Thanks for the vote of confidence. Also, yolo? Really?

Mom: It means you only live once.

Me: I know what it means, mom. I just don’t know why you’re using it.

Mom: I saw it on the gram.

Me: I’m praying you mean telegram?

Mom: The other one. With the pictures. You have to use the ‘#’ thingy.

Me: I’m officially blocking you on all social media.

Mom: Matt, I'm just wondering how much longer you're going to live like this before you give up?

Me: This is my career choice. I’ll starve before I quit.

Mom: Not long then.

On and on it went each week, in some variation of the same text conversation.

Give up? Is that what she thought I should do?

At least I had the chance of a part-time job that was somewhat related. I’d interviewed for a part-time position at the National Gallery, leading tours and explaining about the paintings on display. I hadn't heard back from them yet, but I hoped I'd get it. I was tired of living on my friend’s sofa and really needed my own place.

I also needed that job for money to buy paint and canvas. Oh, and the odd bit of food and light and heat. The luxuries as I called them now, because they were beginning to seem like extras. The gallery position would also leave me with lots of free time to paint. My mom would never understand why I wouldn't sell out. But I wasn't going to do that. I knew I'd make it, it was just a matter of when.

I threw my paintbrushes in the jar of white spirits and headed for the shower. I needed to hurry up, because if there was one time I didn't want to be late, it was today. Things were already looking up for me. Meeting Remi had been so serendipitous and now he was offering to help me. A rush of excitement tingled down my spine as I remembered seeing him in the gallery the night before. I couldn’t quite believe he'd actually shown up. It felt like fate or some cosmic grand plan, our paths crossing so randomly at the café.

But I wanted to see him again for more than just his help. I wasn't stupid enough to think a man like that would ever be attracted to me. He was refined and elegant, wealthy and successful. I was... uh... yeah. I was homeless. I'd just have to be happy with his help.

That was enough for me.