Chimera

by Stephie Walls

  I used to wonder why women tried to change who they were to catch the man. I loved Sylvie as she was, perfect in all her imperfections, and she loved me the same way. We just fit, complimented each other. I want to find the way to fit Sera. I catch myself looking at her when we’re out for coffee or dinner, reminiscing about a memory with Sylvie, as if the memory were with Sera.

  I question myself regularly about my motive to want to be with her. Is it Sera I want, or the idea of recreating Sylvie? I adore many things about Sera, and the more time I spend with her, the more I love, but the things I cherish about her most are those that take me back to my wife. I realize I would die for Sera in an attempt to never lose Sylvie again. Sorting through the emotions has become fuel for my art. The more I paint, the more development I see, and the richer the compositions become. Even if Sera’s not good for my heart, she recharged my creativity.

  The knock on the door jolts me from my thoughts. Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s not Nate. Wiping my hands off on my shirt, I go open the door to find Ferry. “Hey, man, what are you doing here?”

  “I left the studio early and wanted to show you some shots I’ve been working on. I have a thought I want to run by you.”

  “Yeah, sure. Come in.”

  Consuming the living room upon entrance, he opens his portfolio to some gorgeous cityscapes—some with buildings and streets, some with buildings and foliage, one with people in them. All black and white. There’s a sadness to them. Maybe it’s the isolation or abandonment I feel by not seeing anyone roaming the streets or occupying the offices.

  “I’ve been playing with filters”—he glances over to me with a strained look on his face—“not my thing as you know.” He rubs his fingers over his brow as though he’s trying to ease the pain of a migraine. “I’ve been in my studio for two days, and nothing I do makes me want to put these out there. Nothing I see appeals to me. I recognize the value in them, but they just aren’t where they should be. So I had a thought…” He hesitates. My eyebrows rise in waiting question. With a heavy sigh, he says, “What do you think about bringing them to life with paint?”

  “How so?”

  “I was thinking they could become three-dimensional in appearance if there was some color added to them.”

  “You want me to paint the color into a black-and-white photograph? How long have you been awake?” I joke with him but recognize the seriousness etched into his face. He’s on the cusp of an artistic breakthrough—or breakdown. Probably the latter. I’ve been at this point of desperation before, where nothing seems to work, and the harder I tried, the worse it got.

  “Not all of it. Just the spots that call to you. Acrylics, oils, use the knife, the brush, give it dimension and depth.”

  Sitting down on the couch, I take the photo from the top of the pile. It doesn’t appear as metropolitan as the others, but nothing speaks to me. Continuing through the pile, I recognize Central Park. “Were you in New York recently?”

  “Yeah, last week for two days. I was there to shoot a big wedding, but took the time to shoot the city as well. I spent a good bit of time in the park taking shots at angles I hadn’t seen before. I went old school and shot with film. At the time, they worked. When I got back and developed them, they mimic every other picture I’ve seen. There is nothing about them that stands out. Anyone could have taken them on vacation—they’re just not unique.” Admittedly, he’s right. They’re not his usual quality, rather ho-hum and ordinary.

  “Have you tried playing with the exposure on them?” He cuts his eyes at me as if to say, yes, dumbass, that’s not a new idea. “Okay. Stupid question.” My mind starts reeling through possibilities. My eyes search the prints, pushing them around, and suddenly, it hits me. “Distortion.”

  “Huh?”

  I pull two from the pile. “Distortion. Can you scan these into imaging software and distort the image, like a fisheye kind of thing? Or pinhole! Pinhole could work. Change the perspective, then add the color. No clue how it will turn out, but if you could alter the way it appears the image was taken, the angle, deforming it, we could add the color as highlights. What do you think? Even better—double exposure.” The more I talk, the more the ideas flow. “Superimpose.” I hold up the two images, one of a bridge in Central Park, the other of a piece of the city from the ground. Both look as though they were taken lying down with the camera angled up, the bridge disproportionate to the things around it, the street the same in the other. “Lay the bridge on the city.”

  I watch his eyes process. I’m no photographer, my knowledge limited, but I’ve been around enough artists to have some basic conceptual understanding of what can be done with technology. “Give me a few hours. I’ll bring you double exposure and superimposed.”

  “They need to be large enough for me to add to them. Sixteen by twenty, minimum. Matte will work better than glossy. The paint will adhere better.”

  “I was thinking we would lay it on canvas?”

  “That’s paint-by-number. You want unusual, let’s go out of the box.” I admit I’ve never seen either one done, but any painter can put color on fabric. To my knowledge no one has attempted to do it on a photograph.

  “How many prints do you want?”

  “One of the double and one super. I don’t deal in multiples, Ferry.”

  Gathering his shit, he stuffs it back in his portfolio with little care. “I’ll be back in a few hours. You going to be here?”

  I tip my head toward my painting and say, “I’m working on a piece. I’ll be here.”

  He looks in the direction I was working, and asks, “May I?”

  I nod and give him the permission he apparently wants.

  “Is this Sera?” His brow furrows and he turns toward me. A familiar expression crosses his face—the same one I saw when we were leaving the opening several weeks ago.

  I shrug. “Not verbatim, but there are certainly similarities.” No one has called me out on my relationship with her at this point. Not even Nate has pushed for a label. To be honest, the painting looks as much like Sylvie as it does Sera, but Ferry hasn’t put the two together.

  “Be careful, Bastian.” He clears his face of emotion.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She’s not who you think she is. She has a reputation and is into things you don’t need to get involved in.”

  I wonder how much he truly knows about her, but I don’t ask. I care too much for her to expose her to a business acquaintance. She entrusted me with personal information, information I’m sure could tear her apart in the community if it got out to the wrong person. I struggle to understand what she’s doing, and I’ve taken the time to try to comprehend it. Others wouldn’t be so gracious.

  “She’s a good girl.” For some reason, I feel the need to continue. “We’re just friends, man. It’s nothing more than that.”

  “Just watch yourself. I’d hate to see you get pulled down when you’re soaring again.” He slaps me on the back and uses the front door, closing it with a thud behind him.

  His words don’t affect me the way he probably thought they would. I channel his misunderstanding of my muse into paint. I can visualize her with amazing detail in my mind.

  She was here the other day and started laughing at something. Oddly, I don’t recall the conversation we were having, but her image in that moment is etched in my memory. I see every angle, color, the way the light hit her as if the lens focused on her, blurring everything in the peripheral. She had on this thin spaghetti-strap tank top and jeans, but when she leaned over, doubled over in laughter, my mind snapped this image of her right as she made eye contact with me. Her mouth agape mid laugh, her shoulders slightly rounded, accentuating her collarbones, and her slender arms, her eyes alight with joy. She had no makeup on yet she radiated life.

  That’s the image on the canvas in front of me. When the painting is complete, there will be no mistaking it’s Sera. She’s exotic, unique. She’s the quintessence of beauty though
not classic, the kind you only find when you look far beyond what society sees, the layers peeled away. Other than Sylvie, nothing has ever crossed my path more graceful, more stunning, more alluring than Sera.

  Thinking of her takes my breath away. I run through images in my mind, snapshot-formed memories. Mentally flipping through the pictures, I stop at the ones marked with bruises and pain hidden behind glasses and covered by scarves.

  I’m putting the finishing touches for the day on the painting when my door opens. Must be five-thirty. Nate. God love him. He never failed me. He swings the heavy wood with his foot but it doesn’t shut. Ferry’s a few paces behind him, presumably, with prints. Nate brought dinner, which is fabulous because I’m starving. Acknowledging Ferry, Nate heads to the kitchen.

  “How’d the developing go?” Ferry’s face appears haggard from hours of work in an attempt to salvage what he perceives as wasted time. It happens to us all but never gets any easier. Throwing a piece of art away is almost sacrilege; it becomes part of you, even if it’s not the quality you crave.

  “I won’t go into the horrific details. I’m sure it would have been easier if I’d slept in the last couple days, but my brain is foggy. Things that should be simple are becoming increasingly more difficult, so I’m dropping these off with you and going home to bed.”

  “Any direction on where you want me to go with them?”

  “This is all you. I didn’t think of the imaging, so I’m not going to try to direct the painting. I leave tomorrow afternoon for a week to do a fashion shoot, so don’t feel you have to rush these.”

  “You do fashion?” I had no clue. I don’t know whether to be appalled or admire his versatility.

  “It’s not at the top of my favorite things to do, but depending on the designer and the freedom they give me, it can be just as artistic as anything else I do. I’m picky about who I work with, and they either give me total license to work the way I want to or I don’t contract with them. Most of the time, they have an additional photographer doing standard runway shots. Mine are used more for advertising the line, high-end marketing campaigns to sell their diversity. Anyway, I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Do you want me to take you home? You look like shit. Driving doesn’t seem like such a smart idea.”

  “I don’t live far from here. I’ll be okay.”

  “All right, man. I’ll see what I can do while you’re gone, but no promises. This may go horribly wrong.”

  “That’s what you said about KD.” With an awkward smile, he turns to leave. “Did you make any progress on the painting you were working on?”

  I turn it for him to see the completed portrait.

  “There’s no denying her beauty. It’s exquisite, Bastian. Just keep it to the art.”

  Nate reappears from the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. He watches Ferry leave, turns toward me, and waits for the door to close. “What was that about?”

  “He brought some prints by that he wants me to try a new technique on. Another joint project I guess.”

  “No, the part about keeping it to the art.” The scowl on his face tells me he didn’t like the implication.

  “He thinks I need to stay away from Sera,” I say nonchalantly.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I didn’t ask. I don’t really care. Ferry’s a nice guy but he doesn’t know her. Artists are all a little eccentric; otherwise, there’d be no creativity. He said she’s got a reputation and into stuff I don’t need to get involved in.”

  “Maybe he knows her better than you think he does.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I shrug it off. Frankly, I don’t care who knows her or doesn’t. It isn’t going to change my opinion. “What’s for dinner?” I walk past him, ending the discussion.

  17

  More and more frequently, I’m coming home to Nate hanging out at my house waiting for me. I’m seldom home for his early evening appointments, but he never really says much. Some days he leaves a note indicating he stopped by, others he waits. Often, I’m working with Ferry or consulting with Tara on a project. I’ve noticed the few times I’ve come back with Ferry in tow, Nate has given him the once over, in a stink-eye kind of way, but he says nothing, typically excusing himself shortly after we arrive.

  Nate has his own life. He goes out with other friends, dates, has a demanding job in finance, but he spent the last five-plus years babysitting me. Every day, without fail, he showed up in some capacity to check on me. I think maybe he got to where he needs the reassurance as much as he thinks I do. Something is off with him, but he hasn’t told me what, and I haven’t asked. I feel it, but unlike him, I lost the connection we had that enabled to me to know without him telling me. If I had to guess, the tension centers around Ferry and Sera, but he knows they’re both an integral part of my life and will never say anything.

  When he shows up tonight, he seems like good old Nate until he sees what I’m working on. The prints Ferry brought me have become a lot of fun. The subject matter is already there; I get to add the dimension and color. The challenge of adding the perfect ensemble of paint hues without contributing so much that I change the composition has been a lot of fun. It’s so different from everything else I’ve ever worked on, but so was my last project with Ferry. His ability to naturally push me artistically makes me crave his ideas and presence. He’s becoming a mentor in a sense—not that I go to him for advice, but because, creatively, he’s one step ahead of me. I’m stretching outside my box, still within the same genre, but working with someone else forces me to incorporate their talents with my own in order to make them cohesive.

  “So, have you become Ferry’s bitch at this point?” He snarls the words at me, so uncharacteristic of my lifelong friend.

  “What? No. What the hell is your problem these days, Nate? Any time Ferry’s name comes up, you get all fucking snotty.”

  “I don’t like him, Bastian.” There’s the truth.

  “Why? Are you jealous?” It’s callous, but I need to know or I can’t fix whatever’s wrong.

  “You think I’m jealous? Jesus, do you know me at all?”

  “Then what is it? Your entire demeanor changes when he’s around. Do you have any idea what he’s done for my career?”

  He looks at me, burying the anger threatening to boil over. Nate’s always cool and collected. He never loses his temper, but I can see he’s struggling to keep this at bay.

  Crumpling his lips together in stern indignation, he blinks hard, twice, then nods his head. “You’re right. He has certainly furthered your career.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaves.

  It dawns on me when I watch him walk down the sidewalk to his car, if it hadn’t been for Nate calling the paper, Ferry would never have become a part of anything I am. Yes, he helped me, but Nate saved my life, something I never vocalize or give him due credit for, a fact he never asked to have acknowledged. He did it because he loves me, and I let him because I needed it.

  Fuck!

  I grab my phone and text him. He ignores my request for him to return. I know I should call until he answers and lets me apologize, but I extended my olive branch and he chose not to accept it. I’ll apologize tomorrow when he comes by.

  Satisfied with the work I’ve done on the shots Ferry gave me, I email him pictures of both, figuring he’ll get them when he checks his inbox. I have no idea what all is on his agenda while he’s out of town and I don’t want to bother him. Almost instantaneously, my phone rings, Ferry’s logo shows up on the screen.

  “Hey, man, what’s up?” I greet him. I hear a woman giggling in the background, obviously trying to get his attention. He tells her he’s on the phone and to give him a minute.

  “I just saw the pictures you sent.”

  “You didn’t have to call. We can talk about them when you get back.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. They’re incredible. Way beyond what I thought you’d be able to do.”

  Getting compliments
from Ferry on my work is like a child receiving adoration from their parents. My chest swells with pride, my body warms with appreciation. “Anything you think I should add? I didn’t want to overdo the color and lose the photograph.”

  “No, I think the depth you added with the three-dimensional color brings the black and white to life. Did you paint over the cracks in the sidewalk with blacks and grays? It’s hard to tell in the picture.”

  “Yeah, not all of them but several to delineate the lines from the streets, highlighting their brokenness. The tone of the pictures is desolate, lonely cities, unattended. I wanted to bring that to the forefront subtly.”

  “Definitely achieved that.” He again leaves the conversation to address the girl in the background. Her name is Jessica and he gets terribly irritable with her distractions, telling her to leave if she can’t be quiet long enough for him to make a phone call regarding work. When she starts to cry at his terseness, he returns. “I gotta go, man. Women are way more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “No worries. Let me know when you get back and I’ll bring them to your studio.”

  “Sounds good. Talk to you later.”

  Too late to start another project tonight, I clean up my mess. Sometimes it seems the process of cleaning up takes longer than the actual painting itself. Brushes are expensive. Taking care of them properly extends their life, but it’s a tedious process I often want to skip late at night. Looking around, I’m grateful to have the task at hand.

  For years, there was nothing that brought me any type of happiness—getting out of bed was usually the biggest accomplishment of each day. I can’t say I’m back to the blissful life I led with Sylvie, but I’m finding shards of joy again. I desperately want the euphoric feeling back, the love of a woman, great friends, beautiful art, fantastic music. It doesn’t get any better, but the fall—God the fall—almost destroyed me. Slowly, I’m climbing the mountain to peace. I may never reach it, but for the first time in years, I have the determination and fight to attempt the hike to the top again. Daily, we take for granted the blessings we have in life, having them ripped away, it’s painfully sobering.