‘Oh! That’s new...’ Ava realized, unsettled by the change.
There was a small figure, growing larger with each step. Ava’s attention focused in on it. ‘Her…’ A pale woman, her sodden hair hastily plaited. She was another survivor of the shipwreck. Her face was bruised and battered, the bottom of her skirt hanging in rags.
“Hullo…?” the woman called as she neared. “D’you need some help there?”
Cole sat up, wiping his face, seemingly confused.
Ava was torn in two directions. She could feel herself dissolving, her being returning to the millions of vibrations that formed all things. She fought the pull this time, needing to see who this was. Below her, Cole climbed unsteadily to his feet.
“Can I bring you some help?” the woman called again. “Can she be moved? I could get some’un to help you.”
Cole shook his head, laying Ava’s hand against her chest with tremulous fingers.
“There’s no point,” he answered brokenly. “She’s already gone.”
Ava was fading to nothingness even as he spoke. She struggled against it like a fish on a line, her departure slower than the last times. For the first time ever, she clearly saw Cole’s reaction to her death, his inconsolable grief. His whole body quaked with the impossible truth that she was gone. Under the yellow-leaved trees, the sound of rushing wind – like rain – was rising. Ava’s attention began to recoil just as the woman stepped out from the blue shadows of the woods. She was fair-haired and young, her concerned eyes resting on Cole’s downturned face.
‘My god!’ Ava’s mind announced. ‘It’s Hanna Thomas!’
With a rush, she was pulled backwards and up, the figures below and her own body, broken like driftwood, fading into three small dots until only the snake and the coins were visible.
The wayward peace she’d once known was tinged with grief. A feeling of loss soaked through her thoughts as her vision expanded in an ever-widening arc of green. For the first time, she wanted to stay.
: : : : : : : : : :
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
: : : : : : : : : :
Ava was late for class. She’d slept through her alarm, only waking when Cole had called her cell phone. He was in the printmaking studio waiting for her. Pulling on her jeans, layering one long-sleeved, one short-sleeved shirt, then donning her leather jacket, she headed out the door, swearing. She’d been up until midnight finishing her latest essay for Wilkins’ class. The two Art foundations classes had become the bane of Ava’s existence.
She jogged down the stairs, backpack in hand. It was laden with books for her afternoon classes and it banged hard against her shin as she ran. Ava swore again, hoisting it to her shoulder, and pushed open the front door with her hip, stepping out into the snow. There was a new prof teaching the first of her two foundations courses: Art of the Ancient World. It wasn’t that Ava hated the woman, per say, it was that Professor Aichens – with her carefully articulation, insistence on thoroughness and her propensity to repeat herself endlessly – drove Ava nuts.
Cole teased her about it, of course. He’d taken this course in his first year of university (as most fourth year Art students had). He’d volunteered to proof all of her essays if she was willing to trade favours in return. Ava blushed, remembering. That aspect almost made the writing worth it, but she had to force herself to attend each day. Only imminent graduation (or failure) kept her there.
Reaching her vehicle, Ava fumbled for her keys. She found them under crumpled receipts and a half-empty bottle of water at the bottom of her pack, swearing until she got them in the lock. The door squealed open and Ava tossed her supplies onto the far seat before climbing in. Frost had settled deep into the vehicle. She rubbed her hands against the cold, not having time to wait out the chill.
With another blast of swearing, she started the engine, hunching her shoulders and heading back outside to scrape the windows. Minutes later, she clambered inside while the buzzing engine slowly dropped to a steady purr. The truck was old and irascible... and being twenty minutes late to class was better than having the beast die altogether halfway there. She did not want to walk in this weather.
Wilkins was teaching her second art history class this semester, which made it ten times worse than the first. It was Art since 1945, and Ava regularly kept late hours to keep up with the readings. There seemed to be as much written about the art, and what the dialogue meant, as the paintings themselves. Clement Greenburg had been the first of many. It drove her crazy, the convoluted doubletalk of artist and medium and historian. Though she loved the process of creation and the images themselves, she found it difficult to put her thoughts into words. She knew the dark history behind her own artwork, but Wilkins’ focus on discussion made the class a struggle to manage. It was even harder to dissect about someone else’s process with alacrity.
She thought of the completed essay sitting in its folder, printed and ready to submit. The process to complete that essay had been a hell of a lot easier than the first. After a week of late nights in the library, Cole had taken pity on Ava and brought her his carefully-written notes from the previous year. (He’d offered more than once, but she’d always refused.) Seeing them that evening, after hours of writing a paragraph and then deleting it in frustration, she’d burst into tears of relief. It’d turned out that a translation from Wilkins’ inflated rhetoric into simple language was exactly what she had needed.
Cole’s descriptions made sense.
Since that day, Ava had been making her own observations alongside Cole’s; her purple pen appeared like a second language overtop his black script, taking notes for the first time ever in Wilkins’ class. The phrases and scribbles and sketches swirled like clouds meshing with Cole’s meticulous notations, leaving a multi-layered rendering of ideas, more detailed than the original.
Her second essay received Wilkins’ highest praise: “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She hoped this latest essay would do as well.
Feeling the first bloom of heat from the truck’s heater, Ava popped it into gear. She headed onto the icy road, aiming for student parking near the Arts Wing where the Printing studio was located. She and Cole had only one class together, and it bugged her that this was the class she had to be late for. Of all her courses, printmaking was the one she enjoyed the most. It was a two-dimensional medium, but Ava had been surprised to discover how meticulous the process was, compared to painting.
Ava made it to the campus without incident, heading into the heated parking garage and swiping her pass at the gate. A space in the parking garage was one of her splurges, though with the age of the Beast, it was almost a necessity in the winter. She was late but not too bad, as the prof tended to give sketching and collaboration time for the first bit of class. Crossing her fingers that today would be no different, Ava pulled her bag off the seat and sprinted toward the building. Her lungs burned with cold, skin tingling within seconds.
The first few days of the semester, the class focused on mono-printing: spreading ink across the plate with the brayer, then wiping away the lighter areas with fingers and rags. It was a form of printing designed to capture that tenuous moment of creation. Ava loved it; Cole endured. By the end of the week, they’d started to branch into other aspects of printing. Today their first long-term project began. The phone in Ava’s bag rang and she ignored it, running faster.
‘When I said five minutes, Cole,’ she thought in exasperation, ‘I didn’t mean it literally.’
She headed up the back entrance, hoping someone was outside the fire exit taking a mid-morning smoke break. Rounding the corner, she got the first warm whiff of tobacco and grinned. She’d guessed right.
“Hold the door,” she bellowed.
The woman up ahead pulled the door back open with a chuckle. In seconds, Ava was inside, making good time to the printing studio. Down at the end of the hallway, she saw their prof – a small, slightly-built woman with short, grey hair – stepping into the classro
om. Ava loved Giulia and her informal approach (first names being a requirement with her). Ava gingerly walked into the large printmaking studio, hoping she hadn’t drawn any attention to herself. She stepped up to Cole and eased her bag to the floor, sitting next to him. His hand gently squeezed 'hello' on her shoulder just as Giulia called everyone to put away their sketchbooks.
“Thanks for the call,” Ava whispered, smiling as Cole's hand ran down her arm to capture her fingers under the table. “I totally slept through the alarm…” she added. “Dead to the world.”
Cole chuckled.
“Have I been keeping you up too late?” he teased.
Ava smirked.
“Both you and Clem.”
Chapter 3: The Multiple Print Project
Artist and printmaker Professor Giulia Cezzano stood at the high printing table, a variety of zinc plates and wood blocks along with their respective prints laid out in front of her. Cole tried to focus on the instructor’s words, but Ava was beside him, and his concentration dragged away to her instead. Her breathing was slowing after her panicked run to class, and the sound reminded him of her fading pants after they’d made love. Letting go of her hand, he slid his fingers to her back, rubbing absent circles, his own breathing quickening at her nearness.
“Feels good,” Ava murmured, leaning into his hand.
Cole chuckled. Praise like that wasn’t going to help his concentration at all.
At the front of the class, Giulia began pointing out the various prints, talking and gesturing happily to the equipment around her.
“Since the start of the course, we’ve been working primarily with mono-printing and relief prints,” she said, pulling out a carved wooden block and running her fingers across the surface. “For the next unit, we’ll be starting to work with intaglio...”
Giulia laid out woodblocks while she talked, then picked up a heavy silver plate and a print of the image made from it, passing them around the table. The image looked like a pencil sketch of a little girl at a piano. The cuts were incised with precision, the simplicity of the image refined down to an individual line.
“...this one here,” Giulia said, “is my daughter, Lucia. It’s dry point, which means I’ve used a needle to cut a line into the zinc plate. When ink is applied, it fills the lines, and then it can be printed to reveal them. Rembrandt did many of these prints. They’re the most like drawing of any of the printing approaches, and you can create some really interesting effects with the technique. It’s a very immediate art form...”
Ava pushed into the movement of Cole's fingers. Feeling a knot of muscle that had formed a ridge in Ava's lower back, Cole switched to his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, kneading instead of rubbing. She moaned quietly under his ministrations and he grinned, digging his fingers harder into the band of muscles.
Another plate came by as the students passed them around. Ava gave it a cursory once-over before handing it back to Cole. It was a rendering of a river-bottom flower, the detailed shading of the image created in crosshatches.
“...and the second print that I handed out,” Giulia explained, “is an etching. In yesterday’s class, I showed you how to apply resin to a plate and use the acid baths to reveal the lines you’ve scribed into it. Well, today we get to start playing with that. The print of the yarrow was created by etching. That’s yet another way that you can work with a plate... another form of intaglio...”
Next to Cole, Ava turned, her voice pitched low.
“Keep going,” she whispered, “harder... lower...”
Cole’s body jumped to attention at the sound of her voice. Ava knew exactly what those words made think about. He grinned, thumb pushing harder into her muscles, heading down her spine.
“...The last print I want to show you,” Giulia continued, “is one that’s created by burnishing with oil. It’s a technique called mezzotint, and it’s similar to dry point in that you roughen or damage the surface...”
Giulia lifted a small T-shaped tool, handing it to a nearby student. The tool had a serrated surface on the curved base like a meat texturizer. As Ava reached forward to take it, the low waist of her jeans flared open. Cole dropped his fingers inside. Ava squeaked in shock, swivelling back around, tool in hand. Her cheeks flooded with colour, her chest rising and falling in rapid pants. Again the memories of her under him flashed to mind and Cole smirked.
“Sorry... was that not low enough?” he asked, falsely innocent (secretly glad that they were sitting at the back, his hands hidden from view.) Ava giggled, sitting up once more in a semblance of studious interest. Cole’s fingers ran back and forth along the lacy edge of her panties, and he watched her struggle not to squirm.
“...for mezzotint, you stipple the entire surface of the plate with the mezzotint rocker to create burrs in the plate's surface,” Giulia said, her grey head bobbing. “It’s a lot harder than you’d think. I suspect a few of you’ll be complaining about tired arms by the end of class...”
Cole dropped his fingers lower, brushing the curve of Ava’s ass.
“Cole!” she hissed. It was a warning, her voice breathless.
“Yes...?” he answered, laughter at the corners of the word. His fingers paused for a moment.
“Don’t,” she commanded, voice wavering.
Cole chuckled, his fingers picking up the movement once more, teasing along the line where the fabric met the soft skin of her back.
“Ava, I’m trying to listen to the directions here,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. She scowled at him, then jerked as his fingers dropped lower.
“Cole....” she warned again, and a jolt of excitement lodged in his groin. It was very much like the noise she made when she was begging him for more. He was glad the table was blocking his lap from view, and even happier that Giulia was continuing her discussion of the project at the front. Right now, the prof was holding a variety of new tools aloft.
“...and once you have a solid black plate, you use a scraper and a burin with oil to burnish in the lighter areas of the image. Essentially you’re filling it in with light rather than dark in this case...”
Cole leaned closer, his mouth directly next to Ava's ear. To anyone watching, it’d appear he was whispering some thought on the discussion.
“I want to fuck you, Ava Brooks,” Cole whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Right here. Right now.”
“Cole,” Ava whispered. “Please...” She flushed from her chest up to her ears and Cole had the inappropriate urge to kiss her in front of everyone.
“Please what?” he asked darkly. “I like it when you beg.”
“Don’t!” Ava growled, catching his fingers, preventing him from moving.
He raised his eyebrow, trying to pull his hand back, but she held it tight. Up at the front, the professor sighed, calling to them.
“Cole and Ava,” she said dryly, “could I get your attention? I want to make sure that everyone understands this next project.”
With an embarrassed cough, Cole pulled his hand out of Ava’s grip.
“Sorry, Giulia,” he said, dropping his voice bashfully, “I was asking Ava about her project for the Student Show. Sorry, should’ve waited until break.”
Giulia smiled indulgently.
“I’m sure we’re all looking forward to the Student Show, but let’s focus on this for now.”
He nodded, and class continued. Ava waggled her eyebrows in admonishment, clearly trying to hold in her laughter. Giulia was now pointing out the series of plates before her.
“For this long-term project, you’ll be working on ten different prints,” she explained. “You will have to create each of the ten prints by altering a single plate...”
There was a murmur of concern as the project’s parameters suddenly crystallized. A single image was hard enough, but with ten images being created on a single plate, the challenge became exponentially more difficult.
“... you need to obscure the image each time – either by etching in,
or altering the design, or using a mezzotint rocker on the surface. I’d suggest starting simple at first... perhaps just dry point, because the more completely you use the plate, the harder it is to obscure it next time. Keep in mind you need to totally change your design, and the deeper you dig into the plate, the more difficult it is to alter it. I’m going to warn you,” Giulia said, lifting the dry point needle in the air. “Don’t cut too deep in your first prints.”
“But what if we do dig too deep?” a girl in the front asked. “What happens then?”
Giulia reached out to the side, pulling up a print stained with inky shadows, but within its depths, the faint outlines of something else. An echo of what it had been still visible in the second plate.
“Cut too deep,” she said, “and your image will keep coming back again and again, no matter how many times you rework it.”
Chapter 4: Mediation
Cole sat in the cozy depths of the armchair, his eyes unfocused. He was supposed to be talking, but instead he was counting the minutes until his penance was over. Today was the first meeting with the counsellor, the one that both he and his father had agreed to see. Nina had been the one to suggest Marta Langden, the same therapist that Frank and Nina had seen years ago, and Nina swore that she had single-handedly prevented their divorce, assisting them through months of marital problems in the wake of Angela Thomas’s suicide. That revelation was one Cole hadn’t been expecting, but it made the suggestion to go for counselling with his father much easier. Being here, and talking about it, however, were two different things altogether.
Cole hated it.
The woman was in her early forties, with warm caramel skin, long dark hair, and a youthful demeanour. She had broad lips, and a wide grin, but most striking were her dark eyes; they sparkled with good humour. Cole liked her on sight, found her comforting in a way he couldn’t explain. She’d suggested that for the first session, Cole and Frank simply talk. With this advice, both of them had fallen back into their old patterns. Frank grumbled on about life as he remembered it.
Intaglio: Dragons All The Way Down Page 2