Chapter 4 In the Grimnr Shadow

I squinted at my easel, biting my tongue. Oils streaked my hands in a smattered rainbow of blues and blacks. The wan angel from my dreams peered back at me, smirking. With a soft touch of my horsehair brush, I added gray accents to his raven wings. They disintegrated slowly into the black background, charred to ash.

The composition was heavy. His sallow cheeks had all the gravity of the moon, pulling one in to his sharp lupine eyes. I stared, transfixed, then shuddered as he seemed to gaze back.

"Interesting musculature, Fianna," noted Professor Applebaum. I yelped at finding my art teacher behind me, so close to my ear. She laughed gently. "I'm reminded of Michaelangelo's larger-than-life sketches. But tell me. Why these angels, over and over? Don't you crave variety?"

She was right. My space in the art studio was littered with sketches from my nightmares, the strange chimeric demons and twisted angels that spanned my dreamscape trapped in charcoal and graphite. While the other students painted a broader genera of things, I was trapped creatively, possessed by my works as if they owned me. There were maps of war-torn landscapes and bloody roads where there should have been a nondescript bowl of fruit.

I craved to create with the pizazz of Professor Applebaum: she did jazzy scenes and hip infusions of culture, pop art and portraits of the strange. Her lithe figure was always decked out in retro outfits and flashy vintage jewelry, somehow sensuous amidst the bright colors she favored. I loved the free reign she gave us in Composition class. It let me sort out all my fire-and-brimstone baggage through art.

I shrugged in response, putting the paintbrush behind my ear. "I could say something like they call to me, or that the tedium of Paradise Lost drove me mad in British Literature last semester, but in all honesty, I don't know. I try painting other things, but they just seem hollow. Flat."

"Mmm," she observed, tracing an edge of the wing. "You draw inspiration from dreams, don't you? Sometimes the greatest minds are inspired by the unconscious, or, driven mad by it." She examined the sketch the painting was based on that I was referencing, looking at the serpent crown I planned to illuminate in gold leaf over his head. "It's a very deep thing you tap into. Angels and demons. Metaphors for whether man is human or beast."

"I'm not much of one for metaphors or psychology. I paint what I know, I guess. That's why I don't consider myself creative. Everything I do feels like an imitation."

"But it's something all your own, Fianna. I have a challenge for you. I want you to do a triptych based on this month."

"A triptych?"

"Of the spirit of winter. Based just on your experiences. Real life, no fantasy elements. I expect it before Winter Break."

I nodded in response, dumbfounded, as she walked away. Sure, I could do sketches of still-lifes and models, paint a landscape as well as anyone, but blend inspiration from my real life, which was about as interesting as a hot dog sans condiments and onions? Maybe it was just the ennui every nineteen year old feels- trapped between teendom and twenties- but I was convinced I had nothing valuable worth contributing to the art community. My peers deigned to put their feelings and observations to the canvas, bold in committing their passions and stating "Here I am. Judge me as you will."

Maybe my works spoke more about me than I thought. That I hid behind such grandiose things as angels wasn't a coincidence. It was easier for me, than putting my feelings out there.

Of course, I had things to draw on. A distant father, a mother I'd never known. All I had was her silk hair ribbon and a faded photograph of her I'd found stashed away in dad's drawers: I had her auburn hair and yellowish cat's eyes. She'd died in childbirth, and dad rarely spoke of her. My maternal grandparents were unheard of in our household beyond the annual birthday cards they sent. We were, in a word, estranged. I absently touched the necklace I'd received for my eighteenth birthday from them, a silver dream-catcher charm, only to find the hollow of my neck empty. I paled, feeling for the lost chain.

"A great beginning to what will surely be a splendid day," I muttered, thinking of the zoology test I had coming up at 12:00. I gazed at the pale light coming into the studio room. The campus was a dream, covered in thick snow from last night, with Narnia-like lampposts guiding students under darkened silver skies. At the center of New Campus was a sundial ringed by hedges and benches. The art building, Andrews, was across from the Swem Library where people lingered, smoking cigarettes and discussing philosophy. I brushed past them on my way to my next class.

Over the course of the day, I ratcheted up a list of my 'winter experiences:' what would surely be a B- on my zoology test if God (who was up there with Elvis in the probability of being alive) had mercy. Getting stuck in line at the Sadler dining hall for dubious vegetables and some kind of meat that might have been bush baby. Making awkward eye contact with the nude model during my Life Drawing class in the evening. How all this would inspire a work of art, I had yet to know.

"Quinn," I complained over dinner. "My life is meaningless." We were at Peter Chang's as she'd requested the night before. It was a moderately priced Chinese dive popular with the locals. Retired patrons and college students filled the booths around us. Balinese wall art rounded the room and a curtain fell in between, dividing it into sections. The General Tsao's chicken was doing wonders for her mood after her chemistry exam.

She gave me a hard look. "Girl, you need to party more. There's nothing a little alcohol and expertly applied man can't fix."

"You know I don't do that."

"Hipster."