Merriton

“Roscoe’s workin’ late. You wanna come over for dinner?” Dora had already started dinner and didn’t like the thought of it going to waste. Kit Kat replied, “I guess I could use a break. It’ll probably take me a half hour to get there. Is that okay?” Dora laughed. “A half hour? We only live five minutes apart. What’re you doin’? Walkin’ here?”

The phone was quiet on the other end and Dora worried that Kit Kat’s phone had cut out. “Are you there?” Kit Kat answered, “Yeah, it’s just that I haven’t showered for a couple days and I’m still in my PJs.” Dora felt the scolding rise in her, but she held it at bay. “Oh, that makes sense. I’ll see you in thirty minutes, then.”

She pulled the sauce pan off the red hot burner. It could wait thirty minutes, she told herself. She considered watching some television, but wandered into her painting studio instead. Over the years, her painting had become neglected in exchange for hours on her computer playing with Photoshop. She had become fairly adept at computer imaging, but had never produced anything she wanted to print out full-sized.

Ever since Kit Kat came home, however, Dora had been inspired to paint again. If Kit Kat could make a living writing stories, surely Dora could make a living painting. Even if she still taught school during the day, she could paint at night. And with the winter season being so busy for Roscoe this year, she had lots of quiet evenings to paint.

She imagined that she could have a booth at Onion Days for about a hundred bucks. She didn’t actually know how much the booths cost, and that uncertainty filled her with doubt. She floundered when she tried to decide how much to ask for each painting. If she didn’t count her time, they cost an average of forty dollars to make. Canvas, paint and varnish weren’t inexpensive media, so she would have to charge at least fifty dollars each and sell TEN paintings to make up the cost of a booth.

That seemed like an insurmountable goal to her, but the thought of charging more for each painting sounded pretentious to her. She had seen artists at Onion Days charging three and four hundred dollars each for paintings, but that seemed so outrageous to her. Why would anyone pay that much for a painting when they could paint their own for forty bucks? The art world was a crazy world to her, built up on ego and balls more than oil and canvas.

She looked at the paintings that she had completed in the last few months. She counted the ones that had gotten their coat of varnish and just needed to cure. FIVE. She needed at least five more. Three were drying, waiting for their own fate with varnish. And a four more weren’t quite finished. She looked at her most recent painting, a rendering of the Junco Lodge House. The golden lights that made the lodge glow weren’t right, she thought to herself.

She opened her sealable palette and looked at the hues she had used to create the illusion of light. The oranges and yellows looked like the right colors on the palette, but the painting didn’t fit her memory. That evening when she and Roscoe had gone night skiing at Junco a few years ago, the lodge had looked so warm and inviting. It beckoned. It called to them, frozen and tired from hours of skiing.

Inside, they had bought warm cardboard cups of pumpkin and spice flavored coffee, but Dora hadn’t known it was coffee and ended up unable to sleep that night. She could still smell the cinnamon and creamy warmth of it, but the lodge didn’t look right. Why didn’t it look as warm to her as it did that night?

She closed her eyes and tried to remember that evening. They had skied down Chip’s Run, so they ended up below the lodge. They removed their skis and hiked up to the lodge and it felt like it was so far away. After hours of skiing, that short hike felt like a major trek.

She opened her eyes and looked at her painting of the lodge. She had gotten the perspective right. It appeared to be high above the vantage point. From a technical standpoint, the lodge looked exactly as it did that evening, except it didn’t look warm and inviting. Dora crinkled her brow and puzzled at her inability to create that proper feeling.

She closed her eyes again and remembered that night. She looked at the lodge in her mind and then quickly opened her eyes. What was different? The lodge looked exactly the same to her, just not as warm. She even had recreated the ski jackets and tourists milling around and lounging on the armchairs. One bored man looked at her out the window. She had painted him to look like Randy McCain, even though it had been someone different in reality.

What was different? She closed her eyes again. Did it look warm because I was cold? Is it impossible to convey that feeling of warm without exposing the viewer to extreme temperatures? Dora didn’t believe that could be true. It MUST be possible to express the inviting warmth that the lodge exuded that day.

She opened her eyes again and finally saw it. It was a reflection of the warm light on the snow in front of her. It was missing in her painting. Dora took her palette knife and mixed a soft and warm yellow, cutting a roll of paint onto the knife. She ever so softly ran the knife over the snowy hills in front of the lodge, picking out a reflection of light onto the nighttime snow. Muted and subtle, she barely touched the canvas with her palette knife and suddenly, the lodge filled with a glowing warmth.

She stood away from the canvas and her heart filled to the brim with the memory of that night skiing. She had created that vision of the lodge so accurately that she could smell the sweat and dank snow. She wanted to jump within that painting and taste that pumpkin spice coffee again. She even remembered her thoughts on that evening, mistaking the coffee for a uniquely flavored hot chocolate. The jittery and caffeine-fueled shaking that had controlled her hands that night overtook her, and she felt the elation of it.

Perfect! That painting was perfect. She signed it and set it aside to dry and wait for its varnish. The excitement of finally conquering that one problem filled her with joy. She looked at her watch and she was shocked at how much time had gotten away from her.

She rushed back to the kitchen and turned the stove on medium. If she hurried, dinner would be ready by the time Kit Kat got here.