Oran Warner
September, 2022
After a long moment of various scrunched faces, Lavender sighed. “I think the distinction between ‘I want my art to reflect how I feel’ and ‘I want my art to feel like this’ is very, very important.”
He paused, nodding as he attempted to absorb her words.
They’d gotten closer, talking more frequently after what they lovingly referred to as the ‘Monet v. Van Gogh incident.’ Even after he’d broken the sacred sketchbook code, she’d given him a chance.
They’d both been craving tea and hopped on the trolley after class and now sat on a plush purple sofa in the back room of the Jasmine Jo café. Mid morning turned to afternoon as they lingered, gazing at paintings hanging on the turquoise walls and flower arrangements lining the high shelf opposite of them.
Even though they’d become friends, he couldn’t help feeling that he didn’t really know her.
“Mhm… I hear you. Can I ask what you mean by that?”
“Well,” Lavender paused, sipping her drink – an iced rose cake latte with oat milk, if he remembered correctly. “If you think about it, every great artist makes you feel something.”
Oran nodded slowly. Lavender sighed.
“All great artists, whether they’re painters, sculptures, writers, singers, whatever – all of them make you feel invested in their creations. They use their craft to portray a story that evokes emotions. They get you to feel something.”
Oran digested the comment. “I guess that’s true.”
“Well it’s not like we create for no reason,” Lavender snorted. “We all have something we’re itching to create, some story we wish we could tell. Most people just don’t know how to tell it.”
Oran hummed, nodding tentatively. “And you?”
“What?” Lavender’s head snapped towards him, eyes wide.
“You said we’re all itching to create,” Oran said slowly. Cautiously. “To tell a story.”
“That’s true. We are.” The defensive look he’d grown accustomed to slid back into place, her tone sharp as a concealed weapon. “That doesn’t mean we’re all trying to share it. Sometimes, artists create for nothing more than their own satisfaction.”
“Of course,” Oran chuckled, knowing better than to pry, especially when he’d barely gotten her to open up. “I mean, it’s not like we artists share everything. We have to keep some of our works to ourselves.”
“That,” the tightness in demeanour loosened not unlike an alley cat’s would as a threat backed out of its territory. “And not all art is made to be seen in the first place.”
They continued their conversation, Lavender doodling idly on a napkin. He knew he’d struck a nerve; afterall, he triggered defense mode.
After a moment, Oran finished his coffee. He stood, preparing to throw his cup out. “Do you want to maybe go for a walk?”
Lavender looked up, blinking. “Sure.”
“Great,” Oran grinned. “I know a great park we could walk to. It’s got a great view.”
~*~
Oran and Lavender lay flat, watching brilliant white clouds move slowly across the sky. “I think that I feel in colors.”
Lavender hummed. “How so?”
He grunted, rubbing his eyes. “Well like… every day I wake up, and I want to like… embody a color, I guess. So I’ll base my outfits on that color and kinda like… go from there.”
Lavender shifted. He turned his head, meeting her eyes.
Her turquoise eyes scanned his face, seemingly searching his soul. “What color are you feeling today?”
“Blue,” he murmured. “Like the sea.”
The smile that crossed Lavender’s face was well worth the embarrassment of his answer.
