She knew it all along

“I’m sorry it has to end like that. It’s not your fault. Well... not entirely…” she clarified calmly, lowering her gaze for a second.

You see, Olivia was neither creative nor compassionate in our relationships to avoid those stupid clichés. Her brutal honesty was something that irritated me the most, and yet again, it was here to stab me. Did I deserve it? Couldn’t say I was surprised, as she acted differently lately, somewhat cold and alienated, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. I was swamped. The tightness in my chest intensified. I felt as if I was lying under the huge rock that was pushing with all its enormous weight onto my chest, so I took a deep breath.

“Jonathan is a very good man. He’s kind and loving, he really sees me, and he is also soon to be promoted to a sales executive role,” She continued my execution with an upper tone as if she was explaining why we needed a mortgage.

So, Jonathan, eh? I did not recall that name at all; she must have never even had the guts to mention the man! And a sales executive! No wonder she never appreciated my art anyways; money was all she was ever concerned with. All our fights were about it.

“We met at the gallery in June, if you remember. I told you he wanted to buy that Rembrandt piece for his house, but the frame didn’t go well with the rest of his interior design, so I worked for a month on this project to find something that he would like best.” She kept bubbling, entirely ignoring my silence. “You look puzzled, darling. Do you not remember it? You were working on that massive scenery of a medieval town that you got inspired by a Shakespeare play, “The Merchant of Venice''. The one you got yourself so immersed into the painting that you even asked me to bring the mattress with bedding by its side.” She commented on the last sentence with a faint smile.

Of course, I remembered that painting! I even went to a lecture dedicated to male accessories of the time to depict it correctly. Such a great piece it was… I sold it to a great friend of mine, but Olivia kept buzzing that a work like that should only be sold at an auction. How could’ve I not recall anything at all about that Jonathan?

“Well, in any case, I have something for you.” She opened her leather briefcase, where she preferred to store her documents, and took out a little black notebook. “ Count this as a token of friendship, a gift from your greatest admirer.” She placed the notebook in my hands, smiling. I glanced down to see “Moleskine” printed on the hardcover.

“ Olivia... I cannot take it, I am sorry. Besides, you know I prefer to work on a vast canvas, what will I do with such a... priceless yet small gift?” I questioned her in astonishment. I didn’t know much about that notebook, but I heard that it was not the cheapest one, and even from holding its cover, I could’ve felt the quality of the material.

“Henry, you keep painting fantasies and dreams! You do it well, for sure, but…” the smile faded as her eyes filled with sadness. “I wish you could see that the real world is just as beautiful as your fantasies. And perhaps,” she carried on, “this little notebook will open your eyes to details not seen before. Maybe you will even try to recreate and sense them with the tip of your brush.” She sighed. “You know I appreciate your art, I really do, but I’m also scared that after some time, people will stop buying your dreams. No matter how greatly you paint them.” She sniffed and gave me a warm smile.

“I have to go now; Jonathan must be waiting for me in a car for some time already. Please, take it. It’s yours, and if you don’t use it, then so be it.” She kissed me on the cheek in goodbye and, picking up the briefcase, walked out of doors, leaving me in a cloud of her apricot scent.

***

I worked in the studio alone now. Never knew it’s possible to feel that lonely. I shouted for Olivia to bring more blue paint and masking tape out of a habit, but there was just emptiness left. I didn’t touch her notebook at all, didn’t even open it. I just left it on my coffee table. I was angry at her, for how could’ve she just left me like that? Didn’t she know I needed her? In a few weeks, my anger evolved into nonchalance. I did not care at all. I started drinking heavily, I tried to drown myself in work, but it was not the same. I did not feel it anymore. In addition to my troubles, my paintings didn’t sell for months, and I was very short on cash.

One noon, when I woke up to my massive painting of a lady in a feathery coat walking with her fish on a rope by the shore, I realized that I simply couldn’t do it any longer. My life was meaningless. I took a look at the canvas, and my soul broke down in thousands of tiny pieces. I laid back on the mattress, weeping. I denied it all this time, but she was right. My dear Livy was right about everything. I was hiding by those fantasies because I am an artist, a creator! I believed that the whole purpose of my existence was to see what others couldn’t, to imagine and create what others wouldn’t. Perhaps I did miss something on my way…

I made an effort to pull the notebook from the table. A Black hardcover with rounded corners, matching black elastic ribbon that I pushed aside to open ivory pages, neither too thin nor too thick, made a lasting impression. I was correct indeed to assume that it was a high-quality product. Opposite to the first page, which asked you to fill in the “ In case of loss” information, Olivia scribed a note in her neat hand-writing: “Pause and remember - ‘When you fight reality, you will lose every time. Once you accept the situation for what it truly is, not what you want it to be, you are then free to move forward.’ – Jennifer Young.” And a little addition a few lines down: “Focus on reality for once, grand visions can wait”. I sighed and left the notebook on the coffee table.

***

The first time I decided to use it was when I left my window open and a little sparrow flew inside the studio. It never really happened before, although the bird seemed pretty confident and clearly wanted to stay for some time, which I found out after several failed attempts to help it get outside. There was something special in the bird; perhaps the unusualness of the situation itself made me curious. I’ve seen many sparrows in my life, of course, but I’ve never really stopped to look at it properly. Such a fascinating bird it was! I glanced at the notebook that was still on my coffee table and felt the urge to draw the little creature. “Fine, Livy, you won! I’ll do it.” I rolled my eyes and rushed to get the pen and the notebook for a quick sketch. For the next fifteen minutes, I was only focusing on the bird and trying to get everything right; meanwhile, my little friend was dancing all over the place. This infuriated me to a point where I shouted at the bird to stop. Perhaps I scared the poor fellow, or it just got bored. Anyhow, it flew away through my open window, leaving me with my rage and a half-torn page. And that was why I didn’t like the reality: It was never the way I wanted it to be, it was never perfect, like my dreamy paintings.

For some time, I was irritated and didn’t touch the notebook feeling bad about that episode with the innocent little bird. The next time I gave it a shot when I was crossing a bridge and saw beautiful scenery – a cruise ship heading towards the setting sun, and the sky was striped in shades of pink and blue. As if it was a matter of life and death, I started rummaging through the pockets, searching for anything to draw on, and unexpectedly for myself pulled out the little black notebook. I didn’t want to fall for the same trap again, and when a few lines of the ship were not quite where they were supposed to be on those ivory pages, I took a deep breath and told myself: “Fine, it’s not gonna be perfect, I guess it’s not even meant to be. No one will ever see this anyway”. I quickly finished my sketch of that cruise ship, closed the notebook, and suddenly felt unusually liberated. It was as if with that ship, something else let go of me. Something that was very burdening to carry around and was now drifting towards the setting sun.

“After that, I started carrying this little black fellow around, doing daily sketches, filling it with some real stuff, you know... Once I was caught by a lovely couple who asked me to draw them. I apologized, saying that I would not be able to give them the picture as I hate tearing pages from such an elegant notebook, but they insisted on a sketch. It’s here, after the bakery girl.” I turned the pages to show the drawing of a boy spinning the girl in a silly dance to a man sitting in front of me. Just by looking at it, one can see how happy they were together, a smiling boy and a laughing girl in a spinning dress.

“I like it very much, and every time I look at it, it reminds me of how simple life is. In fact, it’s in all those little details. Not just existing but being present, but paying attention to those around and recognizing their influence. I’m very sorry, Mr. Ferguson, but I just can’t do it. I cannot leave this notebook to your wife. It’s what makes me. Not even for the $20,000, although it’s a very tempting yet unexpected offer,” I concluded my monologue.

“Is that your final decision, Mr. Walde? I heard that your art is gaining popularity since you started to paint city streets so vividly that one can almost feel surrounded by the car horns and smells of hotdogs, but you still live in your studio. Imagine how well you could use your talent and resources with that money! If you could only let my wife have your little notebook that she saw once in your hands… She will not damage it. God forbid; she admires your works greatly!” He pushed aside his glass of brandy and grinned.

I tried to imagine how my life could turn with that much money. I could finally afford a lovely flat in the city center, with big windows and quality furniture, like I always dreamed of. I could buy the finest brushes and canvas... I could be around the greatest artists of my time!

“That’s my final decision, Mr. Ferguson. Thank you for the drink, and I’m sorry that we couldn’t make it a deal, even for your precious wife.” I stood up from the table and wanted to leave when suddenly turned back to face the man at the table. “And, Mr. Ferguson, would you mind telling your wife that the real world is indeed just as beautiful? Have a good day!” He nodded shortly, and I left the bar feeling more alive than ever before.