The Soul of an Artist

“We now present for your bidding consideration,” said the wiry auctioneer in his fake British accent and tailored suit, “Dandelion Girl by Kerah Daniels.”

To keep herself tethered to the moment Kerah laced her fingers together. Discreetly digging her nails into the rich mocha skin on the back of her hands made the flesh there a battered red. Her mouth became dry and she clenched her jaw trying to swallow as the bidding climbed from $5,000 to $40,000.

“Sold!” cried the auctioneer struggling to conceal his giddiness as he salivated over his take from the sale proceeds.

Terry, who convinced Kerah to enter the auction, gasped, with wide hazel eyes making no attempt to control the volume of her voice. Her distinctive Bostonian accent clanged, “Oh my gosh Kerah! You just made twenty-grand! Why aren’t you excited?”

Kerah made her petite frame even smaller by drawing her shoulders in as she spoke just above a whisper. “I’m excited. See my extra toothy smile?” she gestured toward her playful grimace.

Kerah just sold a painting, a first on multiple counts. In addition to being the first piece she ever sold, it was the first she’d ever completed, it was also the first time she’d ever made any real money.

“I just wasn’t expecting it to sell that’s all, and definitely not for so much. I don’t know… I think maybe I’m just a little sad to see it go.” Kerah looked down at her Chuck Taylor’s and let her braids fall forward to cover her face.

“Kerah, what are you talking about? That piece is transformative. Looking at it literally makes me feel like I’m a little girl standing in a field of dandelions getting ready to make a wish. It’s like it’s enchanted. Of course, it sold!”

How could Kerah explain? Her mind wandered to her mother.

“Like this baby.” Her momma would say closing her eyes, inhaling, then blowing her breath into a page of her little black notebook. “Now close your eyes and feel.” Kerah’s momma would then read her latest poem or song and Kerah would be transported to the place, the mood, or the memory that inspired the piece as if it were her own.

As Kerah got older her mother taught her more and more about the process of infusing her art with soul. “Don’t give too much baby girl,” she would say while braiding Kerah’s hair. “If people get too much of a good thing, they go crazy for it. Always hold back something for yourself.”

“Ok momma,” Kerah would say in her quiet little voice. Never asking the question she wanted answered most of all, the question that made her scared at night.

If you give too much, can you run out? Can a person run out of soul?

Even if she had the courage, she couldn’t ask her now. It was too late.

“Well?” Terry had been talking as Kerah’s mind drifted. “I asked what you’re gonna do with the money?”

Five Days Earlier

“Hey Auntie,” Kerah said into the phone.

“Hi honey, you have any plans for the weekend?”

“Not really.” Kerah answered distracted by the glow of her laptop screen.

“Baby you really should get out more. I read an article the other day that said, ‘Melinated people need sunshine or all their melanin will try to draw its energy from their bones’…”

“Auntie, that’s not true. Who would print something so crazy?”

“Oh good you are listening to me. Just checking.” Aunt Norma laughed a little. “Seriously though, you really do need to get out more. Have you tried speed dating? You could meet your match and actually have a reason to do your hair.”

“Auntieeee,” Kerah groaned. “I don’t need a match. I’m focused on school. Isn’t that what you always told me to do? Well this MBA isn’t gonna earn itself.”

“Mhmm. That’s another thing. You went to school for Finance. You haven’t painted in ten years. Your mother and I always expected to go and see your work in the Guggenheim. Now wh—”

“Aunt Norma, I love you and I’m fine. I don’t need a date or the Guggenheim. I like finance and you don’t need to call me five times a week to check in. I’m ok. Alright?” Kerah resumed scrolling on the estate auction website sighing deeply.

“Ok, baby. I hear you. Fine, okay and like are all good; but I want you to be happy and have joy in the things you do. That’s all. I love you too. Talk soon.”

Kerah stopped scrolling and her eyelids peeled back wide in disbelief. She dropped her phone and it clattered onto the floor. All these years and she finally found it. An upcoming estate sale in Rochester boasted a hand-written journal of poetry by renowned poet, Lori Daniels. There were pictures. This was definitely her mother’s journal. The little black notebook, with its elastic closure pressed the edges of the ivory colored pages together so that the name LORI DANIELS could be seen without the treasures inside being revealed to prying eyes. At the end of the attached ribbon bookmark there still hung a small cluster of iridescent sequins above a single heart-shaped bead. A surprise embellishment from Kerah to her mother on Mother’s Day a lifetime ago.

The slamming of her apartment door broke her trance. “Kerah? You home? I can see your bike and I know you hate walking, so don’t try to pretend you’re not here.” Terry, Kerah’s roommate called out before barging into her bedroom. “Geez, Kerah, it’s so dark in here it feels like it’s midnight.” This scolding was accompanied by Terry pulling open the black-out curtains that covered the room’s only window and bleaching the space with light. “Also, just an F.Y.I. it’s two o’clock.”

Kerah rolled over in her bed and covered her eyes, grumbling, “So you came in here to blind me? I hope you’re not about to ask me for anything, because I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Actually,” Terry put on her best butter’em up smile. “I come bearing gifts. There’s a charity auction in five days and they still need one more piece to fill an unexpected opening.”

“No.” Kerah grumbled from under the blankets.

Terry pulled the covers away. “…and they’re splitting the proceeds with artists 50/50. Kerah, these auctions bring in serious cash. Finish any one of these paintings you’ve got just laying around here and I’d bet my share of the rent it’ll sell for big money.”

Kerah was still playing coy but her mind was at work. She’d need money if she wanted to buy back her mother’s poetry book. A serious collector would happily pay thousands for it. Even if she overestimated its value to everyone else, she had to be ready to outbid anyone who showed an interest.

“Fine.” Kerah muttered before adding, “You gamble with your rent money?”

The next morning Kerah sat in front of her canvas which already possessed a blue sky, a field of dandelions and the shape of a fully clothed girl with no hair or face. Kerah pulled her lips in and set her jaw. Thinking of picking up her brush and actually finishing it the way her mother showed her made her wring her hands raw. Her chest tightened and her clenched eyes wept.

I’m scared Momma.

Kerah remembered her mother’s voice leaning in close to whisper, “Shhh, it’s okay baby. It doesn’t hurt. We have to give it life, if we want it to be loved. Just blow a little bit with momma.”

“Okay, momma.” Kerah breathed. She closed her eyes and went to her favorite place, a hidden field of dandelions her mother took her to when she was a little girl. Pursing her lips just slightly she blew out a small but steady stream of air from her inmost being. Gingerly she picked up her paint brush and began making her final brush strokes.

Ten Years Earlier

“Hello? Yes, I’m available. Sure. But if you would please tell Mr. Rue, I have many other pieces I would be happy to perform.” Lori Daniels nearly pleaded with Nancy, secretary to Tafos Rue.

“Thank you, Ms. Daniels; but Mr. Rue quite likes the pieces from the Mournful series. They are in keeping with the tone for the rest of the events he is hosting. He only asks that you bring a new piece this time.” Whenever Lori heard Nancy’s voice, she imagined the woman’s face in sharp unforgiving acute angles.

“I see. What if—”

“Ms. Daniels, Mr. Rue does enjoy your spoken word performances. It’s why he compensates you so handsomely. However, Mr. Rue understands that you are an artist and he has no desire to force you to perform a piece, you do not wish to perform. So, if you’re not comfortable with this, we can replace you with another performer out of respect for your art.” Nancy bit in to the “t” in art. She made her every word sharp and angular.

Lori thought of her daughter, of the beach trip she’d promised her, of paying the rent in advance. She thought of the clothes that were becoming snug around little Kerah’s waist and the shoes she would soon need.

“That won’t be necessary.” Their call concluded. Lori pictured Nancy smiling an angular smile.

Lori Daniels opened her eyes to see a secret world that only she could see. She stepped on bare feet through the grass in a garden that sang love songs to her. Each blade of green caressed her foot from heel to toe serenading her in a falsetto voice, “Love, love, love.” Lori walked letting her fingers brush against the hibiscus blooms lining her path. As she did, they too embraced her and sang out, “Love, love, love,” in an alto pitch. Reaching the edge of the garden Lori went left to a dark and shadowy place where the ground was covered in heaps, some writhing others resembling stone. Here there was a low rumbling moan that groaned, “Agony, agony, agony.”

She knelt down beside one of the writhing heaps wrapping her body around it like a child hugging a stuffed animal.

In her unseen world she closed her eyes to reopen them to the tangible world around her. There she opened her little black notebook and exhaled deeply into the pages as she wrote her new performance piece, The Agony of Sorrows.

“Momma, why’re you crying?” Lori’s 14-year-old daughter Kerah asked walking into the room.

###

Later that night there was a knock on the door. Norma, Lori’s sister answered. “Yes?”

She asked with wide eyes fixed on the two policemen on the other side of the chained door.

“Miss, are you any relation to Lori Daniels?” said the one with the wide jaw and tree stump build.

“Yes, I’m her sister. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“Well, sorry to inform you miss, your sister has died. Seems she had a heart attack on stage.”

“Wha—”

“Here’s a card for the coroner’s office where you can identify and claim her body,” said the tall skinny one with the thin close-cut mustache.

Present

It’d been a week since Kerah spent the entire $20,000.00 in proceeds from her painting and all of her savings, winning back her mother’s journal from an online estate auction. It’d been another week since the journal arrived in the mail from Rochester. Today was Kerah’s birthday. She hadn’t intended to save opening it for today, but she’d been putting it off and today felt appropriate.

Peeling the tape away from the envelope, she slid her hand inside, feeling the familiar cover. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the journal out of the package and into her world once more. Opening its pages for the first time in eons she closed her eyes and exhaled.

“Momma?” Kerah’s shocked voice trembled.

“Yeah, baby girl. It’s me.” Lori’s familiar voice and warm smile answered.