Mabel

23

I am, for lack of better words, a nervous wreck.

After a very, very long month of trying not to get distracted by a certain person and that certain person's face and lips and stupid jokes and general... presence... I have finally, finally reached the point that all art students love more than anything else in the world: handing in your work with the mentality of 'oh well, I did what I could–I'll just copy Jackson Pollock if it doesn't work out.'

And I've talked to many other students this morning–trust me, it's mutual.

But my nerves are ever so present because it's not just a matter of handing it into the examiner and going straight home to chug five litres of Kool-Aid and hopefully pass out from a sugar rush until I get my mark back—I have to actually watch Kang go through it first, too.

A final check in which you have no time to actually do anything after, but have to live with the fact that any criticism can't be fixed and you can rot from it inside-out until the results come in.

"You're dramatic," Morin told me earlier, lazily polishing the lens of his camera for an indistinguishable reason because he's long finished taking pictures for his project.

He was probably just trying to non-creepily take pictures of Talia, instead.

"Of course, I'm dramatic, Morin. Art is dramatic."

"Are fish dramatic, too?" Talia asked from where she'd taken purpose, reading a magazine with her head in Morin's lap. No actual curiosity at all in her question, of course, 100% mockery.

Asshole.

"No," I reply, only half joking when I say, "Fish are superior to humans in every way."

They kind of are.

They don't pollute the oceans. They don't start wars. They don't give stupid deadlines to easily-distracted artists. 

"Oh, so you are still a fish nerd," Morin notes, looking up from his camera for 0.2 seconds just to give me that good old Morin Valdez teasing smirk.

"Part time fish nerd," I correct.

After all, I haven't  been keeping up on the forums, or watching all the new documentaries.

Just five.

In the last week.

Not that many.

"What do you stan now?" Luca asked, knowing very well about my obsessive tendencies from having to live with me living through them.

I can't just like things, I've got to completely encompass myself in one thing until it's time to move onto another thing.  

"Me," Kai said with understandable confidence, barely even bothering to open his eyes because he finds my shoulder way too comfortable to lean on, supposedly.

"He's not wrong," I tell them, and get the feeling that, this time, there won't be any 'moving on' to something else.

#KaiStan4Lyfe.

Kang clears his throat and I look back down at the table to see all of my pieces suddenly laid out and flicked through and wow, I spaced out bad. Always do when a certain person is thrown in the mix.

"Wh-what do you think?" I ask, because the man has this strange look on his face that looks a little surprised and I'm really hoping it's not because it's so awful he's genuinely shocked.

"I... I'm impressed, Mabel. I'm really very impressed."

Oh.

"You know, when you came to me in your first year, I thought you'd never actually become an artist—"

Oh.

"But this? It shows you always had it in you. And the story. It really has such a strong narrative to it."

Oh?

"It... does?"

Remind me to thank Talia for suggesting putting it into that order. Buy her more chips–maybe some baby wipes, too.

But Kang nods, apparently very aware of this narrative that I am hearing of for the first time and I suddenly understand how all those writers we studied in English back in high school probably felt having their poems and stories given all these random, deep meanings they didn't intend.

"At the start, it's like the viewer has an interest in the subject, right? From the roughness of the pencil sketch–the pen... the marker. It's mostly outlines. It's loose. Raw, rash. Unsure but hasty and then, with the layering of the acrylics, the misplaced colour, the surprise on his face... It's all very adolescent and impulsive."

I never really thought about it like that. I just... used whatever felt right... did whatever my hands decided to do.

"But then, you start to use softer mediums here, lighter, delicate colours. There's less contrast with the chalk pastels and the way he's smiling at nothing–almost shy... it seems like the interest turns into something more intimate... maybe even mutually."

I swallow, unsure of why I feel my face heat up wondering if it's that obvious?

"You can see the look in his eyes change too, can't you?"

I really can.

"And then... your final piece shows it so clear, the whole message. It's the development of love, right?"

I almost choke.

"Love," I rattle, mouth having lost all of its moisture in one instant, but Kang doesn't seem to notice, nodding enthusiastically before he claps me on the back and I feel as if I might fall over if he does it again as he says, "Amazing project, Mabel, I don't know how you managed to imitate human emotion, such a... unique journey so well. It's like it's real! I really don't know how you did it."

"Me... neither..."

Well that was supposed to stay in my head.