Dormancy

Ice clinked the side of the glass. A brief singe tickled her throat before the refreshing gin bathed her tongue. She sighed. A strong cocktail for a sobering task. She sat on the bare hardwood floor in her apartment, surveying the room stuffed with forgotten parts of her life.

In one corner, an unused stationary bike now turned handy clothes rack. In another, a stack of childhood drawings, college research papers, and yellowed Polaroids. And sprawled before her on the floor were the artifacts of her creative self – her art supplies.

Ten years.

Ten years had passed since she last picked up a brush or even sketched a doodle. A jar of brushes, old bottles of ink, and a tower of sketchbooks loomed in stasis, gathering dust. She had hoped her creativity would return...eventually. But it dried up as she devolved into the tedium of her day job.

"How can you even make a living as an artist?" her callous father had scoffed on numerous occasions.

Aspirations squashed as that criticism reverberated in her brain.

Configuring databases paid the bills but dulled her imagination.

"I just need a break. If I could afford time off, then I'd create." But she'd been telling herself that for the last ten years. It was never going to happen. It was way past time for her to clean up these fragments of herself. What was she doing even holding onto all of this?

She let out an aching sigh, resigned to the fact that she was abandoning a part of her identity – long dormant and now unable to be resuscitated.

Gulping another mouthful of gin, she pulled a stack of sketchbooks into her lap. Most of these were unused coddling fresh pages between the hardbound covers. Except for one. A small, black notebook – the prized Moleskine she had excitedly purchased before her trip to Istanbul ten years ago. She had always wanted to travel and sketch and finally had the chance. "When did I last open this?" she thought.

The smooth black cover was now dull and matte from a layer of dust. Yet the thick cream pages inside were in pristine condition, bursting with sketches, journal entries, and mementos. She was holding her very own time capsule documenting the last time she had felt creative and joyful.

She lingered over each page, her lips turning into a slight smile as memories of that trip rushed back.

Here was a quick gestural sketch of a stray cat that had befriended her one day. A smudged inky paw print graced the page, the cat's signature when it got too close and too curious.

Beyond that, a messy collage – a chaotic homage to a drunken night out. Tattered shreds of a blue and gold beer label intermingled with a bright red bar napkin. A ring stain encircled a phone number hastily scribbled next to the name Bülent. Doodled caricatures framed the page. She chuckled at the memory these scraps unearthed.

Turning the page she gasped, amazed. "I forgot all about this!" she thought.

Splashed across the page, vibrant blues, greens, and pinks morphed into the formidable domes of the Blue Mosque. Squiggles of peach outlined the impression of minarets. Pink and yellow splatters alluded to trees. The color choices weren't realistic, but it created a bold and dynamic composition.

Seeing this sketch again reminded her how happy she had been creating art. Exhilarated even. She ran her hand over the smooth page, tracing the lines she had created, pausing over the blocks of bright color, feeling her composition.

Then a shiny fleck of gold caught her eye. Stuck to a column of one of the minarets, a little flap of gold leaf twinkled on the page.

"That's peculiar," she thought, as she flicked the material.

WHOOOSH!!!

Suddenly, she felt as if she was thrust underwater. Shapes blurred and colors swirled as she spiraled towards a bright light. A vortex sucked her in until—as abruptly as it started—everything stopped. She landed with a soft thud.

She blinked.

She blinked again.

She slowly looked down at her hands.

They were now the same vibrant hues as her sketch of the Blue Mosque.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around. Her apartment was gone, replaced by the white pages of the sketchbook. She and the Blue Mosque sketch were one. Her three-dimensional self was now flat and confined to the paper.

"Am I in my sketchbook?!?" she yelled, the watercolor splashes shuddering in response.

She picked up her foot, now a yellow splatter, and moved across the page. Plopping one painted limb in front of the other, she sloshed through the sketch. After what felt like eons, she reached the edge of the page and tumbled into the next.

Swirls of black ink danced across the creamy paper.

She looked down and noticed that her watercolor features had now mutated into inky black lines. Thick crosshatches gave dimension to her hands, while softer lines fleshed out her legs. Her physical self was a pen and ink drawing.

Thin lines on the page fed into thicker brushstrokes until they rippled into a crescendo of circles and waves. She almost felt like she was walking across the sky of a van Gogh landscape.

She followed the inky trail until it flourished into a bouquet of jet black, curly hair. Beneath the stylized mane, soft faint hatch marks shaded in a forehead, nose, and chin. A black curve indicated a cheek. Two emerald green half-circles formed vibrant, sparkling eyes.

She was standing in, or rather a part of, a portrait she had drawn.

This was the portrait of the woman who'd approached her in Sultanahmet Square ten years ago. Captivated by the painting of the Blue Mosque, the woman eagerly asked to be drawn. Long, curly hair wrapped around her like a wild cloak. Her penetrating green eyes shimmered and an enigmatic smile never left her face.

It was a random, chance encounter. And now, here she was, thrust into this surreal sketchbook world with her subject.

"Ceylan," she whispered.

"Hello Rachel," the portrait responded.

Rachel screamed.

"What? But...you're a sketch! And, and...I'm a sketch!" she stammered.

"Yet...you're talking to me? How is this possible?" She collapsed into an inky puddle of Ceylan's drawn hair.

"I needed to get your attention somehow," Ceylan coyly smiled.

She started flowing across the page, her inky tendrils fluttering behind her. She turned and beckoned Rachel to follow.

"When I met you ten years ago," Ceylan began, "you were so vibrant! So full of joy!"

The sketched women reached the edge of the page, balancing on an inky precipice. "Your sketches were gorgeous and intriguing," Ceylan continued. "That's what drew me to you that day, Rachel. Your creative energy."

She turned to Rachel and with kindness in her inked eyes asked, "What happened?"

Rachel paused.

"Well, besides being a two-dimensional version of myself..." she quipped. Ceylan chuckled.

"I guess," Rachel started, "well...I stupidly believed my father when he said I couldn't make it as an artist. I turned my back on my passion. I gave up on myself. And now that part of me is gone."

She sighed. Inky tears welled up in her eyes.

Without a word, Ceylan grabbed Rachel's cross-hatched hand and they tumbled together into a striking panorama.

A single silver line stretched across two pages, outlining the skyline of Istanbul. Lush, black silhouettes crowded in the foreground. Bright colors and patterns peppered the heads of the figures.

It was a sea of women each wearing unique patterned headscarves.

Rachel remembered lovingly penning this composition, inspired by the joy and beauty exuded by the group of women she observed. And now she and Ceylan were part of this vibrant sea of shapes and colors! Rachel's creation! How was this even possible?

"You are meant to create," Ceylan encouraged. "Just look at this diverse and colorful environment you captured on paper! I'm just one of your sketches but this still amazes me!" She smiled.

Rachel laughed.

"Clean out the cobwebs!" Ceylan prodded, tapping Rachel's inky head. "Blow off the dust! The world needs your art! You need your art!"

Rachel looked around, literally immersed in her own drawing. The dots of ink and splashes of color ignited an excitement in her – something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Was this a coincidence? Being thrust into her sketchbook, walking through this unreal drawn reality, talking to Ceylan...was she dreaming?

"Don't get rid of your art supplies," Ceylan urged. "Creativity resides in you, even if it's been dormant. Awaken!"

Ceylan grabbed Rachel with her sketched hands, pulling her into a tight hug. Their penned bodies blended into one.

"This will inspire you," Ceylan whispered in Rachel's ear as she placed a piece of paper in her hand.

WHOOOSH!!!

Rachel blinked.

She was back in her apartment, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. The gin and tonic rested against her thigh. The small black sketchbook laid open in her lap displaying her sketch of the sea of women.

She blinked again.

Tentatively, she poked her fleshy thigh. Solid. Three-dimensional. No signs that she was an ink drawing. Or ever had been.

Lifting the glass, she smelled the cocktail. "Did I lace my own drink?" she laughed, bewildered.

She picked up the sketchbook, flipped back to the portrait of Ceylan. The beautifully rendered lines remained on the page. Though the enigmatic smile seemed wider. And, did the green eyes just glisten?

"Huh..." Rachel mused, "was it my imagi—" she stopped.

Underneath the sketchbook was a folded piece of paper. She picked it up and unfolded it slowly.

It was a check for $20,000 made out to her. From Ceylan. Dated today.

"What the—" Rachel trailed off.

On the memo line, one word commanded: Create!

Stunned, Rachel laughed.

Baffled, she laughed.

Joyful, she laughed.

Exhilarated, she laughed.

She turned to a blank page in the sketchbook and started drawing.