original fiction
You Will See Blue Again Tomorrow
We'll start with this: a house. This is where Jane lives.
We’ll start with this: a house. It is a small house, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen at the back that looks out on an apron of grass and a vegetable garden. A driveway runs up the side and ends, abruptly, at a fence. The siding is a graying white, flaking at the corners and the front steps slant to the right.
From the street, you might think the house is abandoned. But the grass is neatly trimmed, the windows shine from recent cleaning. There’s a bike leaning against the side porch.
This is where Jane lives.
..
“You’re calling yourself an artist, now?”
Jane’s brother Scott lives here, too. He is tall, bulky. His shoulders fill doorways. He drinks milk from the carton and drives a pick-up truck.
Jane sticks her new flyer to the refrigerator with a note. “Please point out any typos. Professionalism is key.” The word “key” is underlined four times. The flyer reads: “Local Artist Offering Drawing Lessons to Children. Rates Nigotiable. Call Jane @”
“You misspelled ‘negotiable.’” Scott says.
..
“You don’t think I’m an artist?”
Jane paints landscapes, most of them imagined. She works in blues and greens and purples and browns. Every wall of the house has a painting. The ocean stretches out like fingers to the edge of the dunes. The sky tumbles into the earth in fine mists, in fat drops, in snowflakes that only kiss the canvas.
Jane draws people: on benches, in lines. She draws hands touching other hands. She draws streets that stretch out into nowhere.
..
“Have you ever sold a painting?”
Jane makes coffee. She steams milk, she pumps chocolate into black cardboard cups. She grinds fresh every morning. She wakes up at five am.
Before, she sold used books. Before, she sold popcorn. Before she sold jeans.
She has never sold a painting. Never sold a drawing.
..
“That’s not what art is about.”
Scott teaches English. He coaches the boys soccer team and he runs the school literary magazine.
When he was fifteen he was going to be a poet.
..
“So what is art about?”
Jane’s bedroom is her studio. Her walls (pale blue) are covered in canvases; an easel stands near the window. A pile of sketchbooks sits beside her bed, beneath a camera. The folding closet doors are open and sweaters spill out, all in varying shades of blue.
The dresser is white and rough around the edges. It rises to her chest. On top are photographs, none of Jane, and a row of art books.
..
“It’s about passion and it’s about dedication. Just because I haven’t sold anything yet, doesn’t mean that I’m not an artist.”
Jane hangs her flyers (“Local Artist Offering Art Lessons to Students. Rates Negotiable. Call Jane @”) and turns her phone up loud. It doesn’t ring.
Scott watches from the table in the kitchen. Scott says nothing.
We'll start with this: a house. This is where Jane lives.
We’ll start with this: a house. It is a small house, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen at the back that looks out on an apron of grass and a vegetable garden. A driveway runs up the side and ends, abruptly, at a fence. The siding is a graying white, flaking at the corners and the front steps slant to the right.
From the street, you might think the house is abandoned. But the grass is neatly trimmed, the windows shine from recent cleaning. There’s a bike leaning against the side porch.
This is where Jane lives.
..
“You’re calling yourself an artist, now?”
Jane’s brother Scott lives here, too. He is tall, bulky. His shoulders fill doorways. He drinks milk from the carton and drives a pick-up truck.
Jane sticks her new flyer to the refrigerator with a note. “Please point out any typos. Professionalism is key.” The word “key” is underlined four times. The flyer reads: “Local Artist Offering Drawing Lessons to Children. Rates Nigotiable. Call Jane @”
“You misspelled ‘negotiable.’” Scott says.
..
“You don’t think I’m an artist?”
Jane paints landscapes, most of them imagined. She works in blues and greens and purples and browns. Every wall of the house has a painting. The ocean stretches out like fingers to the edge of the dunes. The sky tumbles into the earth in fine mists, in fat drops, in snowflakes that only kiss the canvas.
Jane draws people: on benches, in lines. She draws hands touching other hands. She draws streets that stretch out into nowhere.
..
“Have you ever sold a painting?”
Jane makes coffee. She steams milk, she pumps chocolate into black cardboard cups. She grinds fresh every morning. She wakes up at five am.
Before, she sold used books. Before, she sold popcorn. Before she sold jeans.
She has never sold a painting. Never sold a drawing.
..
“That’s not what art is about.”
Scott teaches English. He coaches the boys soccer team and he runs the school literary magazine.
When he was fifteen he was going to be a poet.
..
“So what is art about?”
Jane’s bedroom is her studio. Her walls (pale blue) are covered in canvases; an easel stands near the window. A pile of sketchbooks sits beside her bed, beneath a camera. The folding closet doors are open and sweaters spill out, all in varying shades of blue.
The dresser is white and rough around the edges. It rises to her chest. On top are photographs, none of Jane, and a row of art books.
..
“It’s about passion and it’s about dedication. Just because I haven’t sold anything yet, doesn’t mean that I’m not an artist.”
Jane hangs her flyers (“Local Artist Offering Art Lessons to Students. Rates Negotiable. Call Jane @”) and turns her phone up loud. It doesn’t ring.
Scott watches from the table in the kitchen. Scott says nothing.