evie
With a deep breath, I take my place at the edge of the stage, fighting the wave of nausea that fills my stomach with each flip of nerves.
Sam, the guy that went up before me, is almost finished. I take in the classical music he’s chosen, the traditional edge to every aspect of his performance and piece making me second guess everything I’ve planned.
When he completes his final stroke, the minimalist edge to his traditional folksy style earns him an impressive round of applause that makes my brow begin to heat with beads of sweat.
I risk a glance toward the crowd that’s singing his praises and immediately wish I hadn’t.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper to myself, fanning myself with my hands to keep from blacking out. “What the fuck was I thinking?”
“Evie?” Jodie starts, pulling my attention to her as she pats my arms with an excited grin. “They’re pulling your setup now. Did you check all your supplies? You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I nod, appreciating the gentle squeeze she gives my shaking hand.
“Don’t sweat it, girl,” she smiles. “You always do great.”
“There’s never been this much on the line, though,” I release a long, low breath. “Has everyone been that low-key?”
“Yeah,” she nods, smirking at my nervous reaction to her words before taking a half-step closer. “Boring if you ask me.”
“But they love it,” I gesture toward the crowd full of gallery representatives. “I’m regretting every artistic choice I’ve made in the last four years right now.”
“Just do what you do,” she shakes her head, giving me a final encouraging pat on the shoulder as the lights drop, signaling my turn. “He saved you for last because you’re his ticket to tenure,” she whispers, making me laugh as I reach for my phone, ready to set it in my bag when I see his message.
Just let go, babe.
I love you.
-dash
With a nod I step out, prepared to do just that.
dash
“How’s she holding up?” Mason asks as I slip into my seat beside him, silently grateful to be on the end of the row near the aisle. “She still pretty scared?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Yeah, but she’s okay.”
“Good,” he says, glancing out around us to the dozens of rows of filled seats in front of the stage. “Fuck, there are a lot of people here.”
“I know,” I agree, my stomach swimming with nerves for my girl. “How were the others?”
“Pretty fuckin’ fantastic,” he says honestly. “Really different from Evie’s style, but those reps over there? They all loved it.”
“Yeah, but they haven’t met my baby girl yet,” Donna smiles wide, making me grin as I nod my head in agreement, glancing over at what must be at least sixty different art snobs. “She’s got this.”
The lights go dim and silence fills the room, the only sound the low creak of the massive easel supporting what is easily the largest blank, solid black canvas I’ve ever seen being positioned at the center of the stage.
“How long does she have up there?” Mason leans in, his voice just over a whisper.
“Ten minutes,” I mumble, the sound of quiet footsteps pulling my attention back to the stage.
After a platform, a few paint cans and other supplies and a quick light check are put in place quicker than I’d imagined possible, I finally see her petite frame.
Our seats aren’t as close as I’d like, but even from here, I can see her clenching her fists with anxiety and the subtle shake to her chest beneath the form fitting, solid black bodysuit she’s wearing. Using every Jedi mind trick I can come up with, I send as many good vibes as possible, watching her check her knee pads and push her long, double braids behind her shoulders.
She waits patiently for her assistants to join her, equipped with splash guards as they find their places on either side of the massive canvas waiting for her to begin.
The first few rows join me, looking up expectantly and waiting for the dialogue they’ve sat through from every other student. When the huge screen behind her begins to display text, though, its clear Evie won’t be using a microphone to say what she’s got to say tonight.
Art is… displays on the screen behind her as the lights dim, leaving only a spotlight on Evie and the canvas. The text fades on the screen behind her as the room fills with music, her first choice making it impossible for me to not grin wide.
Freakin’ hippie, I think to myself as ‘Groove Is In the Heart’ by Deee-lite begins to thump against the walls loudly, the text on the screen behind her returning.
I may think she’s got the worst taste in music, but by the way her hips begin to swing while she lifts her paintbrush, I know she’ll never know that.
The nerves, the anxiety, I watch as it all slips away leaving only Evie behind.
Art is a voice…
Her hands begin to move, a subtle wave in the center of the canvas forming seamlessly.
Art is happiness…
She reaches high, her fingertips flowing like water to the left side of the canvas as her bare feet arch with her movement.
Art is freedom…
She throws her right arm to the other edge, creating a blue wave that tapers out of view.
Art is despair…
She falls to her knees, dramatic lines of white and orange hitting the ground as she goes.
The track changes, the heavy opening bassline to Portugal. The Man’s ‘Feel It Still’ bumps out of the speakers, taking over her as the sway of her hips begin to shift.
Art is rebellious…
She thrusts her hands into the paint cans at the base of the canvas, gesturing toward her assistants who each reach for unassuming cords I’d not noticed before.
Art breaks rules…
The platform lifts, taking her with it as Evie is elevated a few feet, pulling a gasp from the crowd.
Art is expression…
She goes to work on the top of the canvas, filling in the blank, black spots with bright, glowing shades of blue and white from her fingers. Next comes two wide arches across the shadowed top, vivid shades of blue and pink working seamlessly together.
Art is insanity…
She gestures once more as the song changes for a final time to ‘Let’s Go’ by Trick Daddy, Twista and Lil Jon.
Art is fearless…
The platform drops faster than my typically steel-nerves can handle as she comes down. Her hands move frantically on her descent, filling in the pieces of her masterpiece, making my chest clench with anticipation.
Art is…
The screen begins to flash incessantly to the familiar guitar riffs, a new declaration with each and every beat as she moves in time.
Beauty… pain… war… love… escape… broken… reality… playful… passion…
By the time the platform returns to its place on the ground, she’s panting, exhausted and invigorated in ways I’d rarely seen her outside of my bed.
Truth… alive… hatred… heartbreaking… sexual… history… our legacy...
She thrusts her hands into the cans once more and begins to spin, her hands moving more wildly than a composer as the splatter of neon paint illuminates the entire canvas.
The lights suddenly cease and as the final beat of the song sounds out across the room, so does her final message:
Art is King.
She takes a step back from the completed canvas, the ten-minute presentation so flawless I wouldn’t believe it possible if I hadn’t just seen it myself. Evie drops her paintbrushes like a mic onto the stage and sucks in a deep breath before spinning to face the crowd in the now quiet room as we get our first full view of her creation.
The wildly erratic strokes, the crazy lines and waves we’d just witnessed in her manic state of artistic passion light up, revealing the hidden beauty on her canvas.
I’m speechless.
The once blank, black canvas is gone, but what takes its place is incredible.
A woman with blue-black waves throws her head back into a scream that’s beautiful, heartbreaking, empowering, angry, haunting and orgasmic all at once.
The splatters of glowing, neon paint that defy the darkness look like tears turned war paint.
At first glance, the piece isn’t as abstract as most of Evie’s work, but the sheer passion and subjective nature is so bold, so mind-blowingly beautiful, so… intensely everything Evie just put on the screen behind her, it takes my breath right along with everyone else’s in the room.
One breath passes, then two… I can see the fear in her eyes as she swallows hard, but it’s unneeded.
We aren’t silent because she wasn't good enough.
We’re silent because we’re in awe.
At breath three, the same silence that threatens to break her is a distant memory.