Keys to the Kingdom

Erik looked down at the white page of his sketch pad, disgusted by its blankness.

Of all the times to hit a wall.

Then again, he thought bitterly, maybe that was the wrong metaphor. After all, he'd been trying to grind out a concept for months now and still had nothing to show for the hours of wasted time other than frustration and a perpetually bad mood.

It hadn't seemed so bad at first. When he’d been unable come up with an idea, he'd simply thought, “To hell with it, there's always tomorrow,” and went on to do something else. However, the submission deadline was nearing now, and tomorrow only brought him one day closer to it with still nothing to bring to the table.

He cursed himself. It was his own fault, he realized; he'd allowed himself to get too comfortable.

A hollow laugh escaped him. How little it took for him to forget where he'd been. One grant and a couple of semi-successful exhibitions and he thought he was on top of the world, as far away as possible from the squalor he'd climbed out of. He looked around at his surroundings.

He was in the bedroom of the one bedroom apartment he'd been living in for the past thirteen months. It wasn't sheer opulence, but it was his, and he loved it. For the first time since graduating high school, he had a complete kitchen, fully operational plumbing, his own washer and dryer, and cable. Life was good and as far from the “starving artist” grind as he'd ever imagined getting. No one had been able tell him anything when he won the grant: Take that, Dad; you said art was for pussies. Take that, Mom; you said a hobby like art could never get me anywhere. Take that, Tanya; you said I was going down and pulling you down with me. Take that, world; I made it without your help.

Fifty thousand over the course of one year was a lot for him: bills paid, food covered, money for extras, and a place near the center of Savannah, a city full of inspiration his to harness and—perhaps even more importantly—far away from the weight of his parents’ criticisms. It had been five years since he'd become a legal adult, and he’d decided then that he was going to do things his way from then on, even if it meant going without.

He sighed.

Looking around at his place filled with his belongings, it occurred to him that he didn't want to “go without.” He wanted to live off of his art, but after a year of not having to scrimp and save, he knew he never wanted to starve for it again.

Irritation shot through him. If these thoughts had come to him months ago when he'd first begun putting this off for “always tomorrow,” maybe he wouldn't be looking at a blank sketch pad now.

He groaned, tossing the pad onto his desk and allowing his gaze to roam the room once more.

His eyes came to rest on the bedroom’s one window, though not because they saw anything particularly inspiring. Perhaps it could be likened to the Train Wreck Phenomenon where a person sees a train wreck or a car crash or something equally unpleasant and doesn’t really want to look but can’t help it. This day was a train wreck day as far as Erik was concerned. It was almost noon, and yet thick nearly black clouds completely hid the sun from view, allowing only the soft, gray-washed light of rainy days to illuminate the empty street below.

Hmm, he thought. Perhaps empty was too light a word. Deserted might fit better. Or wastelandic. The rain, coming down in torrents, had chased all but the bravest souls indoors to take cover. Erik got his inspiration from people: their constant motion, their action, their interaction. He could do nothing with this empty street, and it disgusted him almost as much as his blank sketchpad did.

Suddenly, a small black circle hurrying through the rain broke the uniformity of the desolate street, and Erik watched it in wonder. Why in God’s name would anyone be out walking on a day like this? The glimpse of sneakers he caught as the person moved showed that they were not on business—or at least no business of the typical sort—so what then? It was insanity really. As much as he needed people to be out and about, he didn’t begrudge their staying in. He wasn’t about to leave his apartment that was for sure. The umbrella-shielded person disappeared into his building, and Erik sighed.

He was procrastinating again.

In his defense, however, the train wreck weather, in addition to making him angry, made it hard to focus on much of anything. The steady pattering of the rain on the window pane and the muted lighting made him want to sleep. Or run. He began pacing, suddenly feeling trapped. He’d been able to run away from his parents criticisms, he’d been able to run away from Tanya’s rejection, he’d been able to run away from looking toward the future. That these circumstances wouldn’t let him run anymore terrified him.

He looked over his shoulder to see his sketchpad lying innocently on his desk where he’d thrown it, the desire to rip it to shreds almost too strong for him to ignore. His anger was diverted, however, when there came a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” he called as he walked through his apartment toward the door. “Who is it?”

Really, who is it? He wasn’t expecting anyone and, if he were quite honest with himself, he didn’t think there was anyone who cared enough for him to visit him at all, let alone on a day like this.

He opened the door and thought for a moment that it must be someone trying to sell him religion again. He hadn’t the faintest idea of who the woman standing before him was, though she looked slightly familiar.

She was a pretty, young woman, younger than he was by a few years, with a pale, heart-shaped face framed by amber curls and large brown eyes that bore shamelessly into his.

“Hello, Mr. Sinclaire.”

Her greeting was polite and uninflected, but something, maybe the tilt of her head or the curve of her lips, made it seem like she was laughing at him. He was suddenly all too aware that he was wearing only a white tank that had seen better days and sweat pants, though she herself sported only a tee-shirt, soaked jeans, and running shoes.

“Uh…hi,” he said.

The girl gave him a small, knowing smile. “Don’t tell me. You have no idea who I am, do you?”

He leaned against the doorjamb, giving her his best shit-eating grin to hide his uncertainty. He hated beautiful women. They were always catching him with his pants down and then making fun of his size. Vindictive bitches, all of them. “Guilty as charged,” he drawled. “Don’t suppose you’re a strip telegram?”

She gave him an amused look that was not at all the affronted reaction he’d been expecting—or trying to instigate—and shook her head. “’Fraid not,” she said mildly. “Nice to see you haven’t changed.” She shifted the huge bag she had shouldered and gave him a pointed look. “Well?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“I would,” Erik said slowly, wracking his brain for a sarcastic comment to hide how uncomfortable her directness made him. “But I heard somewhere that I’m not supposed to talk to strangers or freely invite them into my home. For all I know you could be an axe murderer or a psycho rapist or something.”

“That you should be so lucky.” She reached into her bag, pulled out what looked to be a brochure of some kind, and handed it to Erik.

It was a pamphlet for an art gallery featuring “emerging artist and New Talent Grant winner Erik Sinclair’s ‘Scenes of our Song’ anthology, a collection of never before seen paintings created solely for this gallery”. Scribbled next to this pithy little blurb in Erik’s own messy scrawl were his address and an old phone number.

He remembered now. That art show had been part of the prize for winning the grant. It was his very first and to see people standing there admiring his works had been the most bizarrely wonderful experience he’d known at that time. His parents hadn’t come.

Erik painted to tell stories, to show things as he saw them, and not necessarily for any one group of people or audience. Still though, most of the patrons of the gallery had been on the older end of the spectrum. That’s why she’d caught his eye. That and the fact that she was utterly beautiful.

He looked at her, wondering what she could possibly be doing here. After the fact he’d wondered why it had never crossed his mind that she could be there merely to admire the art like everyone else. Maybe that just seemed too innocent for such a pretty girl, especially one looking at his art. She turned around to look at Erik, surprising him.

“You know it’s not polite to stare don’t you?”

He was instantly on his guard. She’d spoken to him which meant she wanted something from him. They always wanted something from him. “Sure I do,” he said in his customarily bored-sounding burr. “And you? Don’t you know it’s illegal to trespass?”

She reached into the breast pocket of her jacket and pulled out her ticket to the show, waving it before him mockingly. “Indeed I did,” she nearly sang. “Lucky for me though, I actually paid to get in this time.” She laughed and Erik’s blood ran cold. She was gorgeous when she laughed. “And since I’m on my very best behavior today, you’ll be unable to get rid of me until I’m good and ready to leave.”

“I could claim sexual harassment,” he said, voice thin as he realized she was showing no signs of wanting to leave despite his rudeness.

She shook her head, causing her curls to swing a little, and giving him a smile that to him seemed painfully patronizing. “That you should be so lucky,” she’d said. “Are you always this gracious to your fans, Mr. Sinclaire?”

He raised his eyebrows a fraction. “If I knew I had some, probably. I’m too underground to have fans. How do you know my name?”

She laughed and handed him the pamphlet for the gallery open to the page dedicated to his pieces. There was a picture of him on it.

“Oh.”

She giggled. “And sorry to inform you Mr. Sinclaire but you’re not edgy enough to be underground. I’m familiar with the New Talent Grant competition. You’re getting a nice little payday for this. That’s okay though, I love you anyway.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a painting, apparently oblivious to the stunned look on Erik’s face. “Come on,” she said. “I really want to know what you were thinking of with one of your paintings.”

Erik barely heard her. He needed to get out of there. He needed some fresh air, the feeling that he’d just inhaled a poisonous gas gagging him. Something inside him however wouldn’t let him pull away from this girl though. But then again was that anything new?

No.

Not really.

She led him to the centerpiece of his display. This was his winning painting, the one that had secured the grant for him. It was of a small boy struggling down an empty road, his back to the viewer. The road led nowhere. Around the boy’s ankles and wrists were shackles that connected iron balls and winding around the boy’s small frame were barely visible strings that flowed up to the sky. One of the boy’s arms was stretched out toward the horizon, hand reaching, fingers grasping. The landscape was a barren wasteland with dry, vegetationless ground and an empty sky filled with black clouds. The only source of vibrant color in the picture came from the little boy. The painting was called Self Portrait.

“I don’t understand,” the girl said. “I get that the use of color highlights the inner fire and determination of the boy and that he feels held back and controlled but this road goes nowhere. Why bother pursuing it? And it looks nothing like you. Why did you name it that?”

He looked away, thinking to himself, It looks exactly like me. When he looked back at her, he shrugged. “It’s a story,” he said. “You have to read it for yourself.”

She looked at the painting. “And the ending?”

“Is for you to decide. What do you want the bottom line to be?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment and then smiled, looking over at him. He felt strange being smiled at that way. He automatically distrusted it but it was unlike his mother’s smile or Tanya’s smile. It lacked the conniving condescension of Tanya’s and the calculating manipulation of his mother’s. But a smile from a woman was a smile from a woman, and that was not to be trusted. It was very pretty though. “Happily ever after?” she suggested.

Erik felt a smile creep up on his face but then forced it back. As soon as you let your guard down… “That’s always nice,” he said.

They stood there letting the silence stretch between them for a moment as both stared at his painting until he heard the question burst from his lips. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Adrienne Ivers,” she said, smiling. “I was wondering if you were going to ask.”

“And why’s that?”

“Isn’t that the normal progression of things? ‘Hi my name is blank. Nice to meet you blank, my name is so and so, would you like to carry on a conversation?’ You know, that sort of thing. Those pesky societal norms, I just can’t seem to shake them.”

“Eschew conformity,” Erik drawled. “’The great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.’”

“Emerson?” Adrienne asked sounding impressed.

Erik nodded. “The pretentious blowhard had a few good quotes in him.”

Adrienne laughed and Erik wished she’d stop. It threw him off every time. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t win. Too mainstream?” To Erik’s look, she explained. “I entered the grant completion too. I just lost.”

“Oh really?” He grinned. So she’d lost to him, had she? He was on a roll: getting away from his mother and father, disproving Tanya, and now beating out a beautiful woman. At this rate he might actually build his self-esteem back to a workable level.

“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” she protested, not sounding exactly angry though. She paused. “Actually though, that’s part of the reason why I’m here.”

Erik froze. He knew it! So she did want something from him. Of course. How had he even allowed himself to think otherwise? He folded his arms. “What is?”

Adrienne bit her lip, for the first time looking a little nervous. “I was wondering if you could give me some advice on my art. You know, how to make it better and what not.”

The smile that came across his face was a cross between a smirk and a leer. Oh the audacity of she-bitches. “How old are you baby-cakes?”

“Seventeen.” she said. “I’ll be 18 in a couple of weeks…” She was wary now, whether due to the look on his face, the tone of his voice, or the nature of his question he couldn’t be sure.

“Tell you what,” he said, pulling a pen from his pocket and scribbled his number and address on the pamphlet he still held in his hand. “Once you’ve turned eighteen, you can come to my place and…pose for me. You do that and I’ll give you advice on anything you want.” He’d handed her her pamphlet and then headed for the exit, expecting to never see her again.

Erik looked up from the pamphlet and at Adrienne. It had been over a year. “Ah,” he said. “I remember now. Come to take me up on my offer?”

“As flattering as it was to receive it,” she said, “no. But I had hoped you might consider giving me advice anyway.”

He rolled his eyes. Still wanting something from him. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said, still making no moves to let her in. “You can’t get something from nothing.”

She gave him a look that was too impatient to be a good pout. “Even if I come bearing gifts?” She reached into her huge bag and lifted out a plastic one with Wang II Chinese Restaurant printed on it. Erik’s stomach grumbled. He needed to go grocery shopping but had refused to go out in the storm.

“…I suppose a little advice wouldn’t hurt.” He stepped aside and let her in.

 

“You’re actually really lucky,” Erik said before popping a piece of sweet and sour chicken into his mouth. They were sitting in his living room, Adrienne sitting delicately on the edge of his arm chair eating with chopsticks, Erik sprawled out on the love seat using a fork. “It’s been more than a year since I gave you that address. I very well could have moved. And what would you have done if I turned out to be some pervert.”

She gave him an amused look. “But Mr. Sinclaire, you are a pervert.”

He grinned wickedly. “Oh that’s right. I am, aren’t I? You know what I meant though.”

She nibbled thoughtfully at her Lo Mein. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a moment. “I was thinking about a comment one of my professor’s made about my art and you popped into my mind. It was the strangest thing. I suddenly felt like I just had to talk to you. I tried to call but it said the number had been disconnected.”

“Yeah, I changed it about six months ago.” Erik’s curiosity was peaked now. “What was the comment?”

Adrienne scowled and bit into a piece of shrimp with a ferocity it did not deserve. “He told me my drawings were formulaic and lacked sophistication of both subject and skill.”

Erik winced. “Ouch. Wait, that made you think of me?” He grimaced inwardly. That’s what he got. He needed to stop putting himself out there like that with this girl. He already knew she wanted something from him so there was absolutely no excuse for him behaving as if she was a friend and this was just hanging out. He’d give her what she wanted, just like he always did, and then she’d be gone. That’s how the story ends. “Thanks for that,” he said, “Your ability to flatter rivals your apparent ability to draw.”

Adrienne frowned at him. “I didn’t mean it that way. I thought of you because your art is the exact opposite of that.”

“…oh.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“What do you mean ‘do what’?” she asked in frustration. “Every other word that comes out of your mouth is an insult. If you want me to leave, why don’t you just say so instead of trying to badger me enough that I do it on my own?”

“I-I don’t want you to leave exactly,” he said floundering. Did he? No one had ever asked before. They just left. He cleared his throat, trying to get himself back under control. “I was just doing you a favor.” The attitude was back. “You, like most people, are only talking to me because you want something from me and most people feel bad about that until they realize I’m a total asshole. Just trying to help you sleep at night, angel-puss.”

Adrienne shook her head. “That’s a load of bull. How are you going to tell me what I am or am not here for?”

“You said it yourself; you’re here because you wanted advice.”

“You’re some kind of an idiot Sinclaire, you know that? Yes I wanted advice, but I also came for it in the middle of a tropical storm.”

“And that makes me the idiot?”

“Are you always this much of a douche or is it just with me?”

He looked away for a moment and when he looked back, the disdainful expression he typically wore was tinged with sheepishness. “Pretty much always.”

Adrienne sighed. She’d come here for several reasons but arguing with Erik Sinclaire was not one of them. “That what makes your art so great?”

Erik shook his head and sighed. This girl tired him out. And for some reason she wasn’t going away and he didn’t exactly know how to deal with that. “No… Do you have your art with you?”

She wiped her hands off on a napkin and reached into her bag again, this time pulling out a sketchbook. She handed it to Erik who began flipping through the pages.

There was an abundance of landscapes, a few still lifes, a series of nudes, and some animals.

“Your professor lied to you,” Erik said. “There’s no shortage of skill here as far as drawing goes. The problem is your drawings are dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s no life to any of them, no soul.”

“I don’t follow. Most of what I draw is landscapes anyway.”

“Just because it doesn’t get up and move around doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a soul,” he said. “Why is a painting of a red dot on a white canvas art? Because it has some meaning to someone. Soul. What were you trying to tell your viewer with these?”

Adrienne fished for the words. “Well I wasn’t trying to tell anything per se… More like capture the beauty of my subject. Immortalize it.”

“There’s more to the beauty than just the subject itself though,” Erik said. He indicated one of her landscapes. It was a field in fall with leaves littering the ground and a single solitary tree off to the side. “Take this one for example. Nature is never completely still. The wind might be stirring the leaves. A field mouse might be making a trail in the grass. A bird might be in the sky. Something. Something is always happening. I don’t typically do landscapes or still life myself but my goal is always to tell a story, to let my viewer walk away with something. Beauty might capture the eye but it only does so much to hold the mind.”

Adrienne watched him fascinated. As he discussed the art, he became a completely different person. The abrasive smartass yielded to an artist who loved what he did. How cliché. Why the tough act, she wondered.

“I’m not saying all this for my health,” he drawled. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Go on.”

He snapped the sketchbook shut and laid it on the coffee table. “That’s about it really. The rest is up to you. Find some inspiration and run with it.”

“What inspires you?”

“People typically,” he said carelessly. “Humanity.”

“A person inspired Self Portrait?”

He rolled his eyes. “What is it with you and your infatuation with that painting? It’s almost creepy.”

“Self Portrait is my favorite,” she snapped. “You have a problem with that?”

“Self Portrait is a very private—” He stopped. It had been on display at several galleries in several different exhibitions. It couldn’t be that private. His reasons for painting it were though. “You ever feel like there’s something or someone holding you back or like things are going so badly that there’s no way some higher power isn’t manipulating the situation for its own sick amusement?” he asked her. “Or that you’re struggling for a goal that just isn’t possible to achieve so really you’re just struggling toward nothing? And yet you can’t bring yourself to stop because if you do, you’re just stuck where you are with no hope to escape? Those feelings inspired Self Portrait.”

Adrienne looked at him in wonder and sympathy. “Your feelings?”

He didn’t answer immediately and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to when he said, “Yes. But not just mine and not just those feelings. I painted it to organize my thoughts but if someone looks at it and sees an entirely different meaning, a meaning that’s relevant to them, then that’s perfect. It’s called Self Portrait but it can be my self portrait or yours or anyone’s. Maybe I should have called it Mirror because that’s what I want it to be.”

Adrienne stood rather suddenly, grabbing her bag, sketchbook, and umbrella.

Erik looked up surprised and if he were honest with himself a little hurt. She was leaving. He opened up to her and now she was leaving. What, did he have a masochistic streak that perpetually needed indulging? Why did he keep doing this to himself? “Get what you need?” he almost snarled.

Her expression became pained. “Would you stop,” she said. “As a matter of fact I did get what I needed but no need for you to act like a wounded puppy. You’ve inspired me Sinclaire. I’m going home to draw.” She flashed him one of those perfect brilliant smiles that would have hurt him if she hadn’t said, “I’ll come back and show it to you when it’s finished.” She was coming back? She’d gotten what she’d wanted but was still coming back? “Thank you, Mr. Sinlcaire. Enjoy the Chinese.” She waved and then disappeared through the apartment door.

Erik stared at the closed door for a moment before walking slowly back into his bedroom and over to the window, watching. He felt strangely restless. Not the way he’d been earlier when he wanted to run, but internally restless. Like something inside him was swirling his insides around.

The storm had gotten worse, the rain falling almost horizontally. He waited until the small black circle reappeared from out of the building. After a few minutes it did and slowly began making its way down the street. Suddenly though, a particularly strong gust of wind blew, turning the umbrella inside out and yanking it out of Adrienne Ivers’s hand, carrying it down the street. She looked for a moment as if she might run after it but after a second of deliberation, she could almost be seen to shrug as she walked away, bent over her bag to protect it.

Erik turned away from the window and to his desk where his own sketchpad still lay. He sat down and began to draw. His new painting would be of a girl whose sketchbook has been ripped out of her hands by the wind and the pages are being scattered. One page would show one of Adrienne’s soulless drawings, another would show a mirror, still another would show the two of them talking, and the last would show Erik’s own face flushed with a rush of emotions. He would call it Keys to the Kingdom.

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.07.2013

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Widmung:
To all those artists with temperamental muses