Whispers of Paint

"To be the best, you must learn from the best.

A great tradesman is only as great as his master."

-March, 1890-

What should have been a pleasant escape from the family business has turned into August Rimini's worst nightmare.

Amongst the swarm of busy bodies, he stands with his arms clenched around his heaving chest. Shoulders bump shoulders, arms rub arms, warm breath hit against his face. Not once did he think the art museum would be so busy on a Tuesday. Who even goes out at a time like this? Some event must be going on to catch the attention of every young socialite in the city, not that he would know. He stands frozen, legs locked and eyes fixated on the museum's grand entrance. Evidently, August has little experience navigating crowds.

In his hands, August cups his remaining change. He has counted it at least four times by now, it is just enough to pay the entrance fee of four shillings so long as he is willing to forfeit his evening coffee. A break in the crowd suddenly occurs- now's my chance! He breaths in, straightens his back, crosses his chest and takes a step-

"-Hey! Watch where you're going!" Shoves a taller man, walking right past him.

Before August can even defend himself, let alone croak out a single whimper, the man is gone, dissipating into the crowd. Never even caught a glimpse of his face. 'But all these bodies, all these eyes, they are all staring at me!' He worries.

Perhaps that is not an outrageous assumption for him to make. While the women wear their rose and cream dresses and the men in their brown coats and proud top hats, August looks quite like no one else. His all-black attire is doing him no favours, the long trench coat hangs down to almost his ankles and the leather boots glisten in Spring's midday sun. Some might say he looks like he came straight out of a morgue and in truth, they'd be right on. There may even be blood still stained to the bottom of his shoe. Just this morning, he performed his fiftieth, and hopefully last, embalming without any supervision.

He breaths again. I can do this, he says to himself. He steps forward again, a long walk to the ticket master. Without peeping a word, he pours his coins onto the little countertop and watches the attendant count his money, returning to him so few coins he would not be able to buy even a roll of bread. Still, this is worth it. Two trains and an hour of walking, he has finally made it to the National Musuem of Art.

"If you want to be an artist, you must learn from the best," he reminds himself quietly, "I need… inspiration…"

•••

-Ten years ago-

In the dining room alone, August draws with just a candle for light. The coast was clear- mum and dad were busy with a family downstairs in the chapel. If they saw him drawing and not studying, then he'd be grounded for a month! Right now, he is supposed to be memorizing the periodic table. A good chemistry foundation is necessary to become an embalmer. Though, for being just eight years old, he knows an absurd amount about the laws of natural science.

Crayons roll around the table. His materials have been running low, most are little nubs he can barely hold. The yellow crayon is especially concerning, he can probably draw just three more suns at most. At least he always has an excess of black ready at his disposal.

"Hmm… maybe I can draw the night sky!" He thinks out loud, but then sighs.

"No, that's too gloomy. Maybe… I can draw the inside of a coffin? Wait- no! That's worse!" He replies to himself, as most of his conversations go. This is the downside of homeschooling; August's best friend is himself.

And as his debate continued, he barely heard the sniffles coming from the staircase. Eventually, they catch his attention. Someone was crying, and it certainly was not mum or dad. A voice too soft, to delicate to be one of the adults. In a family of three, who could it be? He must investigate.

With a quiet step and his few art supplies hidden in the safety of his own hands and pockets, he tiptoes to the source of the sound.

"H-hello?" August whispers from the top of the stairs, looking down below.

A little body is hunched over at the bottom of the stairs. August almost jumps out of his skin.

"Are you-u, a, g-ghost?" August cries. At this age, he still had not quite made peace with the dead.

Other kids in the funeral house were a rare site. Most parents would make them stay home as they did the duty of buying lost grandparents their coffin, but on occasion, there would be exceptions. Growing up in the funeral industry, August thought he had seen it all, but some tragedies cannot be shaken off. There were victims he wished he could forget, burnt in his memory from too young an age. Every client had a mourning family behind them, their sobs so unforgettable, echoing through his nightmares. Mother always said empathy was a deadly trait in this industry.

On this such day, the deceased was a young woman, a girl of just fifteen years of age. She was murdered, the circumstances not told to little August. His parents thought it was best to spare the details as after all, August's only duty today was to wipe down the embalming station prior to the family's arrival. He did not want to see her body, so he hid in his room shortly after. That was fine for today. His mother was the embalmer, his father the funeral director, and he, their future apprentice.

August goes down the steps, holding his breath in fear.

The boy turns around, eyes a puffy red and dark, black hair stuck to his wet face.

Ah, he was so… different looking, at least from August. He wears a school uniform, well fitted with a coat of arms over his chest and cuffed sleeves. His shoes sparkle, teeth sparkle, skin is bright. The hair not soaked with tears is neatly combed back. Pleasant to look at. So pure, so alive! Nothing like his rotten self. August feels himself turn red, embarrassed by his dirty apron and slippers. He did not expect any guests. This must be the brother of the deceased girl.

August's hands shake, legs struggling to balance as he descends the flight of stairs. The boy paid him little attention, crying into his knees once again.

"Uhm," August finally stands behind him.

What do I say to another boy? He thinks hard in spite of his beating heart, fast enough to give him a heart attacked. God, I wish I had friends!

"T-take," he stammers for a moment, "paper. Cray-on."

From his tense hands, he manages to place a single piece of newspaper and some crayons on the step above the boy.

The crying boy pokes his eyes out and analyses the situation. With some hesitation, he picks the paper up with confusion.

"What is this?" He asks in a cracking voice.

"For d-drawing… I think," August whispers.

"I don't know how to draw," he professes.

August, out of words, motions with his hand to continue, to give it a try.

"Can I use this?" He picks up the black crayon.

August nods.

"Should we draw flowers? My sister liked to pick flowers."

August eagerly nods for he knows plenty about flowers. He picks up the pink crayon.

They get to work. In silence, they sit together, the heat of bodies so unfamiliar to August, the scraping of crayon against thin paper on wooden stairs sounded through the old house. Every few seconds, August paid the door below a quick glance. If mum or dad saw him drawing right now, well… he would rather not think of the consequences. It would be beyond humiliating.

"I think I'm done," says the boy, his voice steady.

He passes the paper to August, who traded it for his illustration. The boy drew a single black flower, likely a peony evident by all the petals. The crayon is quite smudged, but highlights are made distinguishable with sparse blue colouring. August drew a rainbow orchid. A book he read said colours can help a mourning family feel happy.

"This was fun-" the boy is cut off.

"-Honey, where are you?" A woman's voice calls.

"Oh, that's my mom. I think I got to go," says the boy quickly getting up.

He races down the stairs with August's art still in his hands and folds it up once he reaches the bottom. He tucks it into the pocket of his shirt.

"But before I go- thanks for drawing with me! I'll keep drawing, but you have to as well!" He shouts at August, disappearing from sight yet forever instilled in memory.

•••

August pats the pocket on his right breast. He hears a crinkle. A decade later and the gifted black peony drawn on newspaper, albeit faded and withering, is still with him.

He wanders the halls. The first few rooms are for portraits. Most of monarchy, the occasional illustration of an academic. As someone unable to make eye contact, portrait drawings just felt too… intimate.

He then rushes past a painting that looks a bit too similar to himself. It is of a begger boy with near-white hair and tanned skin, a rare combination he shares with the painting's subject. Out of all way to see my features, it really had to be in a painting of a starving child? He thinks to himself.

Off to the next section, which he finds to be saturated with maritime paintings. They are lovely, but unfortunately, the ocean has never called out to him. He is more interested in mountains- to no offense of the brilliant works of J.M.W. Turner. He goes down, forward to something new, until he reaches an area with fewer guests.

The paintings turn to captures of architecture. Depictions of cathedrals, of boarding schools, or palaces. He takes a closer look. His notebook is ready, a pencil waits in his pocket. But he needs the perfect inspiration, something that moves him, that speaks to him! A painting with a personality so bold, it will teach him with art is. So moving, so detailed, so-

He stops.

A gothic masterpiece. A wintry landscape with a cathedral in a far distant valley, sun nestled far behind the alps. He looks closer. A man in torn clothes off to the far distance. The colours, they are all shades of a greenish-grey, it is such an uncomfortable scene. His stomach turns with the swirls of the wind, spine chills as if caught in the frost. He bends more forward, so close that he can smell the oil paint, the smears not even fully dried.

This is it- this painting is everything! As his eyes close, he finds himself lost in the wintery wonderland. Suddenly transported to some plane of unknown time, snow surrounds him, fills his lungs and blinds his eyes. He can feel his clothing tearing in the wind, shreds drape his body in this subzero weather. But far off in the distance, he knows there is refuge. A place of worship, so far- but why am I moving in the opposite direction? He, turned into the painting's subject, realizes this is not a work of hope. No, he is no lost explorer finally reaching civilization, but a man on the run. Why? What crimes occurred to decide this foreseeable, brutal death is favourable over survival?

He forgets about the notebook in his hand, the pencil in his pocket, the sea of people found everywhere else but here. Just him and the painting, that pulls him in. Eyes lost, his body begins to tip over, he falls!

"-Ahh!"

Before his face rips through the masterpiece, an arm swings below his chest. In an instance, he's brought up to standing position.

"Don't let your infatuation get the best of yourself, fool," a man's voice whispers into his ear.

He looks up. In front of him is a tall, young man, maybe just slightly older than him, with long black hair down to his waist done in a simple braid. He's a ghastly pale, a little too close to what one would see in a deceased body undergoing autolysis, except this man is certainly alive. Those pale blue eyes and grey lips still have life, certainly so! He too dresses in all black.

August's heart jolts as he backs away, bowing as an apology. The man raises an eyebrow.

Ah, but August's hungry eyes cannot help but return to the painting. Like a lovestruck fool, he finds himself entranced by the complicated lighting, the cool undertones. Every paint stroke tells a story…

He almost falls again. The man catches him once more.

"Fool! You really like it, say?" The dark-haired man questions him with both curiosity and concern, but a smirk painted across his snobbish face.

August nods eagerly.

"Why?" Asks the stranger.

"It's... Ta-talking... to me..." August engages with the art some more, listening the sound of old paintstrokes.

The stranger lets out a laugh, but not one that makes August feel any shame. Or perhaps, he cares not to be shamed right now.

"You are no fool... It is refreshing to see art have such an impact on someone. Do sit, take it in slow," he advises, heading away.

"Wait! Do you know more about this work?" August says, eyes locked on the painting. For the first time in forever, he did not stutter when talking to a stranger.

The man reads the information plaque: "T. Engel. Memories of my dear Winter (1890). This is a recent work! he must still alive. Why not visit his private studio? I'm certain he would love to meet a devoted young fan like yourself. That way, you can see even more of his works."

He points to an address at the bottom of the plaque, simply labelled: For further viewing.

"I can… visit him?" He is terribly shocked.

"I suppose there is only one way to find out, my friend. You may learn a lot from an artist," he replies while eyeing August's sketch book.

"It does not bother the artist?" he questions, eyes stuck on the painting.

"Only if you choose to bother them. Though, a little bit of nudging is fine, maybe even encouraged."

August, unsure if the man is truthful or not, can only nod. The man walks away, and August occupies a nearby bench as per his advice. Staring at the painting, he doodles away, drawing inspiration to conjure up his own masterpiece, a work he can only hope is a drop as beautiful as T. Engel's painting.