Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

Now, I only saw everything it lacked.

I saw the imperfect brushstrokes on the clouds, the way I’d misinterpreted the lighting in one corner of the canvas, the way Venus stood a little too close to the foreground, the way I hadn’t really done anything different than Botticelli, other than change up the scenery and take away the other people who surrounded her.

I knew before the professor even got to me that I’d failed.

And all I could do was sit and wait for him to confirm it.

“Ms. Chambers,” the professor said when he was standing in front of me. He offered one of his rare, warm, genuine smiles, clasping his hands behind his back. “How do you feel about the piece you’ve created?”

I swallowed, but did my best to hold my head as high as I had when I first walked in that morning. “Proud. I think I captured my interpretation with elegance.”

“Well, then, let’s see it,” he said, rounding the canvas to stand next to me.

Everything inside me wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and shield myself from his critique, but I forced myself to watch him, instead. I wanted to see how he looked when he viewed what I’d created.

Just like he did with Liam’s, he took a long time dissecting, rubbing his chin and letting his eyes wander in every direction. I watched eagerly, hope filling my chest the longer he examined. Maybe it wasn’t terrible. Maybe I was right. Maybe I’d done it.

But after a long while, the professor sighed, looking around the room before he angled his back to the rest of the class and leveled his gaze with mine.

“This is exquisite work, Ms. Chambers.”

I blinked several times, wondering if I’d heard him right, but the biggest smile bloomed on my face of its own accord. “Thank you, Professor.”

He nodded, and then lowered his voice. “It’s exquisite, but it’s lacking in everything your first assignment was.”

My smile melted like an ice cream cone under the August sun.

“I understand the approach you took, the earthly beauty you were discussing with Mr. Benson last week. And as I said, the color, the brushwork, the lines and the detail… truly beautiful. But I don’t feel anything other than admiration for your talent, which, as contradicting as it might seem, is not the purpose of art.”

I frowned.

“It’s not about what you can do, how perfect your skills are. It’s about what you felt when you created, and what the viewer feels when they lay eyes on it. There have been millions of perfectly executed pieces of art over the centuries that we’ve been walking this earth, but only the great ones stick with us long after the artist passes. Only the ones that sink its teeth into us and hold us captive, that stay with us long after we view it, that we can recall just by closing our eyes and remembering the way it felt to stand in front of it.”

As he spoke, I had a dozen images come to mind, photographs and paintings and sculptures that I knew I’d never forget no matter how long I lived. I remembered the first pieces to inspire me, and the hidden gems I’d discovered on my own.

And he was right.

I couldn’t recall the line work or the use of light or the blending or the consistency.

I could only recall the big look.

The whole painting — and not as it was executed, but as it made me feel when I studied it.

“I want you to give this another shot,” Professor Beneventi said as he stood, tapping the corner of my canvas. “Take your time, and try to look at this from another perspective. It’s the birth of Venus, Ms. Chambers. It’s your view of that momentous event. I want you to really think about that. I want you to tap into how it makes you feel, and how you would want others to feel, if you were the sole artist responsible for capturing the moment to live on in history. And if I may offer some advice?” he added. “You need to get out and live in order to understand the emotions you’re trying to create. Let go of this desire to be perfect.” He shrugged. “In art, that hinders success more than it contributes to it.”

I could barely manage a nod to let him know I’d heard him before tears pricked the corner of my eyes. I knew I shouldn’t feel ashamed, but I did. I knew crying wouldn’t do anything but embarrass me further, but I couldn’t stop the emotion strangling my throat.

I was nothing short of numb for the duration of our lesson, and as soon as the professor dismissed us, I gathered all my belongings and fled the room before anyone else.

I left my painting and Liam Benson’s questioning gaze behind.