Modern art rarely spoke to me. It was sometimes difficult to take it seriously. A room full of stickers could be considered art. An installation of empty toilets all lined up neatly in a row, mounted up on a wall could be considered art. A rotting pile of food placed in the shape of a pyramid could be considered art. I was sure to some people, it was, but not to me. It didn’t evoke any emotions in me, any deep thoughts or opportunities to reflect. But this piece did. It was so overwhelmingly colorful and full of life that it made me feel small, like I was looking up at a product of divinity.
I got the sense that Daliah was incredibly driven and passionate when she started on this painting. I couldn’t help but wonder if the woman in the image was a representation of her, completely free in more ways than one. The bright colors were hopeful, the gold leafing was embodied elegance. Every brushstroke, every patch of color had a purpose, a reason for being. This was Daliah’s way of speaking, of communicating all of her desires and dreams.
My jaw was slack, open in amazement.
“Holy shit,” I breathed. “This is…”
“I-It’s not done yet,” bumbled Daliah, a little defensive. “I’ve been trying to find the time to work on it.”
“This is gorgeous,” I stated.
She looked up at me, rich green eyes wide and sparkling. “R-really?”
“Daliah, this is incredible!” I gestured with my hands at the painting. “I had no idea you were this talented.”
“Yeah, well,” she giggled bashfully, “when I’m not slicing my hand open with a box cutter, I guess I do pretty well.”
“Pretty well?” I echoed in disbelief. “This deserves to be seen by the world. It’s absolutely stunning. There’s no need to be shy.”
“Thank you,” she said, but the lightness of her normally musical voice just wasn’t there. She wasn’t smiling, and was instead staring at the floor. She didn’t look as distraught as she had earlier today, but her sunken face still threatened to pull my heart down and out. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she whispered. “That art show was supposed to be my fresh start. My golden ticket. Maybe Todd was right. Maybe I’m in over my head.”
“Daliah, what–”
“I really thought this was it, you know? Maybe I should just quit and get a real job.”
“Who the hell’s Todd?” I snapped, inexplicably furious at a man I’d never met.
“My ex-boyfriend,” she explained. “When I was offered an art fellowship, he told me not to take it. He said I probably wouldn’t get very far. That I needed to get my head out of the clouds.”
To my dismay, Daliah started to cry. She covered her face with her hands and attempted to wipe at her eyes, but all the sadness and disappointment she’d bottled up inside could no longer be contained.
Before I even had the chance to think, I reached out and circled Daliah in my arms. She gasped, surprised by the embrace, but shifted her weight so she could burry her face against my chest. She clutched at the fabric of my shirt for stability as she sobbed, shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she broke down. I didn’t know what compelled me to hold her. I’d never been a particularly affectionate person. But seeing Daliah this distraught brought about a mysterious feeling of protectiveness. It welled up inside of me until I could no longer deny it, until my body acted of its own accord to provide her with the comfort she so desperately needed. When Daliah didn’t let go, didn’t move to push me away, I tightened my arms around her and pressed my cheek to the top of her head.
I breathed in the intoxicating scent of her lavender shampoo. The heat that radiated from her body was so disastrously perfect that it left my legs feeling weak. How was it possible that this woman affected me so? How was it possible that holding her in my arms felt like the most natural thing in the world? Women before her had come and gone. They took what they wanted, eventually grew bored, and left. I wondered momentarily if Daliah would be the same way. Surely such a sweet, infuriatingly clumsy, but sharp as a tack woman like her was different. Maybe, just this once, I could let down my walls just as she had let down hers.
“I don’t pretend to know everything,” I mumbled into her hair. “I don’t know what the future holds for you. I can’t promise that things will work out. But it’s clear that you have a passion and you have talent. Most people are lucky to have one or the other, let alone both.” I gently placed my hands on Daliah’s shoulders and took a step back to reveal her tear-streaked face. “Don’t give up,” I said to her. “If you quit now, you’ll have come this far for nothing. You got an art fellowship for a reason. People think you’re worthy of the funding. Now it’s just a matter of proving that to everyone who ever doubted you.”