MY NOVELLA!
This is my Integrative Project, without which I can't graduate. So I hope you like it. :)

Plastic Visions in Amsterdam
Chapbook, fiction, approx. 7500 words.

Nietzsche’s doctrine of eternal recurrence demands that we make our every action meaningful. Hannah is plagued by this maxim. An aspiring artist and reluctant law student with a summer internship abroad, she begins question her choices, her relatonships and ambitions. Using the calculated precision of Piet Mondrian’s neo-plastic paintings as an ongoing metaphor for existential authenticity, I explore the contemporary implications of the existential quest for meaning.

Disciplines Integrated: Existentialism, Perspectives in Arts & Letters II, (Dynamics of Design)



I

Sometimes on the Leidseplein I forget that I'm halfway across the world. A sea of parasols protects black plastic tables from the unpredictable Dutch weather; the overwhelming majority of them are printed with English names. I'm facing the comedy club that puts out a yearly manual for American tourists who come to Holland to wine, dine, eat fine chocolate and smoke potent weed. I'm picking at a warm goat cheese salad, saving room for a trip to the neon-lit Swirly's by Centraal Station on the way home. Meanwhile, I’m trying to ignore the painfully blank sketchbook peeking out of the bag at my feet.

Although I have a basic grasp on the Dutch language thanks to my months here, and the fact that the written Dutch, at least, is relatively easy to decipher, the menus at Swirly's have remained a mystery to me, and I'm too shy to ask the fluent English-speaking teenagers behind the counter to translate; they have clearly transcended the language barrier much more successfully than I. What I have deduced from the menu in my time here is that you choose a flavour of ice cream, a permissible number of toppings, press it all together into a colourful paper cup and enjoy. I’ve simply given up on understanding the list of featured extras and specials, and invariably I choose a combination of uncomplicated fruit flavours.

In Amsterdam, you can sit in a café for hours ordering nothing but coffee or chips without having to worry about impatient waiters tapping their feet until you leave. It’s all about good vibrations here – and that isn’t just hippie propaganda. Dinner alone on the Leidseplein is no different.

Good vibrations be damned, though - my sketchbook is a haunting reminder that I have somehow failed to be inspired, even here. I could sketch the parasols, I suppose, the brooding Dutch with their coffee and cigarettes - and Ulrich, at least, would eat it up, if only to comfort me. "So fresh, so edgy!" I can practically hear him saying, in that precise German-accented English, devoid of slang or affectation.

You know you're floundering when your friend has to use words like "edgy" to placate you.

I'm preoccupied, though, with thoughts of Lisa remodeling my studio back home, possibly at this very moment. After what felt like an eternity of cash woes and trust issues, I finally handed her my keys, just before boarding the plane. Lisa is an interior design student and her style is definitely worthy of the epithet "fresh and edgy". Having the same penchant for monochromatic fabrics and rich royal purples as I, I'm not too worried when I think about what I might be coming home to.


Amsterdam, it has to be said, has never been Lisa's scene. When she worked as an assistant for her mother, she fell in love with the bustle and noise and government-subsidized green spaces of big, sparkling metropolises. There is a particular silence here that has never appealed to her. The cobblestone streets and cramped canal architecture are much better suited to old bicycles or sleek Vespas than our expansive, gas-guzzling American alternatives. While I do love noise and neon at heart, there is a peacefulness to the Dutch lifestyle, an authenticity I can fully appreciate.

Lisa is two years my senior. Her mother is a fairly prominent fashion designer, and Lisa inherited her eye for colour, cuts and good taste. She pursued fashion design for several years after we met until an emotional crisis, to put it mildly, encouraged her to pursue the less emotionally obtrusive world of interior design. Through a combination of her family's connections and her own innate eye for good design, she has found her calling.

I, on the other hand, come from a family composed of two groups, the successful doctors and the destitute freelance writers, and consequently, I’ve had a harder time than Lisa when it comes to pursuing my passion. During the school year I study law, ostensibly to fall back on when I'm sick of the life of a starving artist, and I do well. During the summers I work; this year I got to use my father's connection as editor-in-chief of a scientific review to work as an intern at the journal's headquarters in Amsterdam, relishing the proximity to Dutch museums and independent galleries. Not a bad summer job by any means. Ultimately, though, I am aware that this is my parents’ attempt to steer my future in a more economically viable direction. I can’t say this inspires much confidence in my own talents.

My father probably thought that the job his publishers gave me would be fairly prestigious; in reality, I'm just a gopher-slash-secretary. I make coffee, fetch photocopies, answer phones in broken Dutch slang ("Hoi?”) and so on. I don't mind. I stay in an old hostel, spending most of my money on museum visits, sitting in cafés and watching the tall, angular Dutch buying greasy fries from FEBO vending machines, the dreadlocked teens from Elsewhere rolling joints on their overstuffed hitchhiker backpacks. I buy bags and bags of multicoloured tulip bulbs and cannabis-flavoured lollipops, opium incense, tearing enthusiastically into every facet of Dutch culture. I have become a connoisseur of the traditional dishes: kipsaté with warm peanut sauce, simple unionsoep with French bread, the classy Haagen-Dazs shops on every corner with their menus of gourmet ice cream flavours melted over decadent bakery cakes. I have my cache of favourite coffeeshops where I go to email Ryan, who has yet to respond, and to flirt harmlessly with the owners, who love that a few hauls off their weakest weed sends me flying.


The sky over the multicoloured umbrellas darkens, and I hate eating my ice cream once the air begins to cool, so I drop some cash and pick up my bag, hanging heavily from my shoulder with the guilt of not having made any progress. I head off in the direction of Centraal Station and my youth-hostel-apartment.


The next morning, I wake to the smell of fresh coffee in the hall and a knock at the door. Ulrich, an adorable German of indeterminable age, has made an enormous quantity of scrambled eggs, and offers me a free breakfast. This sort of thing is common of Ulrich, who has eyes bigger than his stomach and the friendliest disposition in Holland. He is in culinary school, having escaped Germany just to live in this cheap hostel, cooking for anybody who smiles his way. Ulrich is only poor because his money disappears into Amsterdam's finest gourmet food shops. And his hash brownies are divine.

My living arrangements are less than ideal, but they do have a dirty sort of Beat charm. I share a bathroom and kitchen with an American couple and a few of the dreadlocked hitcher types on my floor. My room consists of a double bed and a tiny TV on an all-purpose table – the TV only gets Dutch Saturday-morning cartoons. When I sink into bed that night, empty Swirly's cup tossed in the trash, I think of Ryan and the apologetic phone call I will eventually have to make, and of my redecorated living space back home; sometimes it's hard to believe that I'm so far away.

When I join him in the kitchen, I see a stack of perfectly browned toast points spread with homemade marmalade sitting next to the steaming scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit is piled high on the plate like an avant-garde sculpture. I feel like royalty. The kitchen, though shabby, is lit by buttery rays of sunlight and the outdated white fixtures are immaculate. Preparing with relish to dig in, I can’t help but forget that I have another life, somewhere else.


* * * * *

II

“If you had to live your life an infinite number of times, could you?”

Ryan and I are playing our favourite weekend game: lying in bed, asking each other innocuous little questions. I ask him about art and cinema, he teaches me about Kant and Nietzsche with the adorable arrogance of the philosophy major. We’re lying in a puddle of sunlight, bathed in the warm air filtering through my open windows, Ryan’s hand tangled in my hair. It’s late April, and the trees are finally budding pale green, the snow melting. Outside, the streets are peaceful. My flight to Amsterdam has already been booked; Ryan doesn’t know. He would ask me to stay behind, and I know that I would.

“I’m not sure,” I say thoughtfully.

There are many things I have to be grateful for: a loving family, a good job, my closet-sized apartment, my brains. I have my sketchbooks and lacquer paints, presents from my parents, canvas on the walls. I have Ryan. But I also have pins and needles in my legs when I stay still for too long, a feeling that my possessions, my accomplishments, amount to nothing. I spent my formative years reinventing myself as the teenage punk, the brooding artist, before a friend finally suggested that I just don’t know what to do with myself, and it suddenly became clear that she was right.

Ryan stretches his slight body like a cat and yawns. His dark hair is messy, tickling my shoulder. “I think I would,” he says.


Later that day, I meet Lisa for lunch and pose the same question. “If you had to live your life an infinite number of times, could you?”

She barely needs time to think about it. “God, no!”

She laughs about it now, but you can still see it in her eyes sometimes: the way she looks down at her stir-fry like it’s the enemy, nibbling at a single slice of carrot before catching herself and swallowing it all, embarrassed. Her forehead always creases when we face a dessert menu, and I know to gently interject that we could share one, if she wants. She smiles, grateful. She has regrets.

I spear a sweet potato with my fork and wait for her to go on.

“I made myself sick doing what I thought other people wanted me to,” she says slowly, staring down at her utensils like she’s forgotten how to use them. “I wasted time I could have spent figuring out what I wanted. There’s a lot I would change.” She bites the head off an asparagus tip, punctuating the thought. I sigh.

“Yeah,” I say, “I think I feel the same way.”


The Elsevier offices are located on the outskirts of the city, between the airport and Centraal Station, where I live. The outskirts are appropriately sobering, outside the realm of beautiful canals, smoky coffeeshops and girls riding bicycles in skirts. On weekdays I wake up early and commute by train to the office, where I essentially write e-mails to friends and answer the occasional phone call. I might be the only person under forty working here. My boss is a man named Geoffrey who was transferred here from the offices in England; his attitude over the months has made it clear that he hasn’t appreciated the change. Luckily, I only really see him when he needs something faxed or mailed. I’m sitting at my desk doodling over the glossy photo of a model in a Dutch magazine I can’t understand. Geoffrey’s phone line has been lit up for the past twenty minutes; he’s been involved in some conference call and consequently, I have nothing to do. I yawn and think of all the things I would rather be doing.

Eventually Geoffrey’s line blinks off and the intercom crackles instead. “I was just on the phone with your father,” Geoffrey says when I pick up. “He wants to speak to you. Keep it brief, will you?”

I can’t stand him.

“Hey dad,” I say when I pick up the phone.

“Are they working you hard?” he asks in greeting.

“I wish,” I say, continuing to draw.

He chuckles. “You’re not exactly cut out to be a secretary,” he says. Here we go. “Have you given any thought to what you want to do next year?”

Of course I have. “I wouldn’t mind being a photographer’s assistant,” I say. I scratch large X’s into the glassy eyes of the model, smiling to myself. “A starving artist would work too, for that matter.”

My dad ignores the joke. “Your mother and I are still hoping that you give your law career some more serious thought. You have the grades and you’re a great speaker. And, you know, if you’re successful enough you can still go to Amsterdam, without having to spend all day answering phones. Of course,” he adds as an afterthought, “We’ll support you no matter what you decide to do.”

I do what I always do when I’m involved in one of these one-sided conversations with my parents; I carry right on drawing, little hearts and stars, cute animals with sharp incisors, things that make me smile, until they’re finished talking. Sometimes I get lost in my sketchbook and forget that I’m on the phone.

“Hello? Han?”

“I’m still here,” I say quickly, dropping my pen. “As always, Dad, I’ll consider it.”

“Thanks, Han. Love you.”

“Love you too, dad,” I say, just as Geoffrey walks up to me with the sardonic smile he uses when he’s about to torture an underling. He drops a thick stack of papers onto my desk and struts back to his office without saying a word. I look down at the pile. There’s a Post-It note on top that reads, “To Be Faxed”. He went through the trouble of capitalizing every letter.

I put down the phone and slump over in my chair, banging my head on the desk.


* * * * *

III

We wander through white rooms, Ulrich having trouble adjusting to the slowness of my pace as I examine every work from Mondrian’s pre-De Stijl phase. Every so often I glance at him out of the corner of my eye; he seems nonplussed by what he’s seeing.

On weekends, I try to see at least one art exhibit. The city is overflowing with artistic minds, and not only in the big museums, but in the small galleries on the most unremarkable streets as well. Usually I go alone, armed with a sketchbook and some extra cash for the glossy, overpriced gift shop books I can’t resist. This week Ulrich abandons his spoons and bowls and accompanies me to the Mondrian exhibit, informing me that he intends to figure out why this particular artist is referenced in so many of our conversations.

Everything at a Mondrian exhibit must be perfectly executed, I tell him. The interaction of the painting with the blank space surrounding it is very nearly as significant as the work itself. This gallery has done a commendable job; canvases are spaced out in such a way that each work is an island unto itself, surrounded by an ocean of white plaster. The smooth whiteness of the wall is a stark contrast to the bold black lines with their sharp angles, the textured colour planes in primary colours. I commit every shape and perfect line to memory. I feel a smile tugging at my lips, the quiet pleasure I only get from a truly inspiring exhibit. Ulrich once told me that when I’m looking at art he sees the religious ecstasy of a saint, or the bright eyes of a great chef in front of raw ingredients; he has a penchant for sweeping, dramatic statements, but I like it.

“But what is the point? Why squares?” Ulrich asks in a stage whisper. He’s standing a few feet away from the wall, unlike me; my nose is practically pressed into the painting. I can see tiny brush hairs left in the wake of thick strokes, paint piling up in patches around bold black lines, giving texture even to the white spaces. Even up close, the angles are in astonishing alignment, the lines cleanly slicing across the canvas.

I motion Ulrich over, and he takes a few tentative steps forward. Giggling at his bashfulness, I tug him by the sleeve until he stands right next to me; he shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable, as though he’s going to be reprimanded for standing so close.

“Because they’re simple,” I tell him. He looks at me quizzically.

A security guard is eyeing suspiciously, but with that same characteristically Dutch reluctance to disturb us without a good reason.

“The squares themselves don’t mean anything,” I say, by way of explanation. “They aren’t supposed to. Mondrian used lines and primary colours, because they’re pure. They’re abstract. He thought he could get in touch with a spiritual reality, by not representing the world around him. It’s supposed to be like a religious revelation.”

Ulrich takes a step back. “Oh.”

“Well, that’s the simple version of it anyway,” I shrug.

“But I don’t see it,” he says, beginning to walk away.

The security guard looks over and puts a finger to his lips. Ulrich hangs his head, abashed.

I lean in and whisper, “Look at the next painting and just think about what he was trying to do; he thought he could make you see the spiritual nature of reality. It’s a really abstract idea, but it’s pretty cool when you think of it that way.” Ulrich nods, then shushes me.


Art historians have found that Mondrian’s seemingly random patterns of lines were actually drawn and redrawn with minimal differences, barely even noticeable, until he was completely satisfied with their position on the canvas. And apparently the proportions of his paintings conform to the then-unknown mathematical proportions of fractals, which is what makes them so aesthetically pleasing in many cases, only he would have had no way of knowing this. I can’t help but think that maybe he really did manage to tap into some underlying core of reality.

We pass into another room, more pure white space, our footsteps echoing on the white floor. “More squares,” Ulrich mutters under his breath. Either he’s not enjoying the experience or I haven’t explained myself well enough.

“Tell you what,” I say, “Tonight you can teach me to bake something really crazy, okay?”


When we leave the gallery, blinking in the afternoon sunlight, I see everything in black outlines and primary colours. Buildings are brown rectangles tinged with crayon red, the sky an endless expanse of surreal sea-blue - the world according to Mondrian’s plastic vision. I don’t belong: I am a strange spherical creation of mixed colours: no sharp angles, blended shades of peach and brown-yellow and grey-blacks. I feel heavy, alien, and very out of place.

There are some things that are just beyond explanation, like how I wish I could paint one piece with as strong a conviction as Mondrian. I would be glad to feel so strongly about a work as to be compelled to fix the tiniest detail, to move a line by a hair, even if people only react to it the way Ulrich just did. It would be nice to think that I could really change the world. Ryan liked to talk about the psychological importance of creative impulses; I begin to wonder if I have any of my own.

Ulrich and I stop for a beer by the canal, soaking in the noontime warmth. My perspective shifts back to the intermediate hues of our immediate surroundings, and we sit in silence. Ulrich lights a cigarette, and I snatch an ashtray for him from another table.

“He knew exactly what he wanted people to see,” I say thoughtfully, stirring a little sugar into a steaming pot of European tea, hot water poured over fragrant mint leaves.

“Who?” Ulrich asks, tapping ash into the ceramic tray.

“Mondrian,” I say, squinting up at him. “In his art. He had this idea that he could get past the physical world, and then he made it happen. He created his own reality.”

Ulrich puts down his glass and places a comforting hand on my arm. “You will too,” he says. I almost believe him.


* * * * *

IV

Ryan and I haven’t spoken since I left for Amsterdam. We were supposed to spend the summer together, maybe even travel, before I disappeared to work for my father. I jumped so quickly at the prospect of spending the summer here that I never stopped to consider Ryan’s feelings. I didn’t want him to ask me to stay behind, and I didn’t want to deal with his jealousy. So I left. We fought bitterly the day before, when I finally told him, and he refused to come see me off. I cried, threw things across the room, invisible to him on the other end of the phone. In the end, I promised to write and hung up without another word. I drove myself to the airport and slept uncomfortably in my seat all through the flight.

I’ve settled in so well that it feels like there are no loose ends to take care of. I have an apartment, a daily routine, a schedule for work and painting. I’ve even made a friend. And yet for weeks I haven’t heard from Ryan and I do miss him. My for-emergencies-only cell phone still has some money left on it, and this is as close to an emergency as I can imagine during this trip. I take deep breaths and clutch the phone to my ear, a glass of orange juice in one hand, taking fortifying sips between rings.

He picks up, and I launch into it.

“This isn’t fair,” I say, without a proper greeting.

His scratchy voice on the other end of the line is comforting, at least until he begins to accuse me of lying to him, keeping secrets, which, I suppose, I can’t deny. I’m picturing him, sitting on his mattress, unshaven, dirty clothes in garbage bags around the room, empty bags of chips and things lying around, looking too skinny: not taking care of himself when there’s nobody around to remind him to shower or do his laundry.

“I really don’t have time for this right now,” he replies, too coldly.

“I’m in Amsterdam, Ryan.” I spit back. “ I have a goddamn job. I don’t exactly have any other time. I can’t really afford to call you back after this.”

“Well, If that’s what you want,” he says, impassive.

I feel my face flush; I forget that I did something wrong. This is an amazing opportunity for me, I tell him, wondering if I actually feel that way. I’m in a romantic city, I say, being faithful to a boyfriend who doesn’t consider my feelings, my future. He’s lying around at home, probably drinking every night, probably smoking again. I tell him about the supposedly fantastic clubs on the Leidseplein I’ve been avoiding for his sake all this time. “And you know what?” I say, “That isn’t what I want.”

“All I wanted,” he says slowly, in the level, accusatory tone that reminds me that I’m being unreasonable, “Was for you to tell me you were leaving.”

“Can’t you just be happy for me now?”

“No, I can’t.” he says. “I really do have to go now.”

The phone clicks. I look up at the walls of my room, the impersonal decor. The only reminders of home are my sketchbooks and paints. The weather is typically overcast, humid but cold, the sky a depressing shade of grey. I lean against the chilled windowpane and long for my bright apartment back home. It hits me that even my apartment won’t be the same when I come back. It will be beautiful, yes, but it won’t be mine. It will be Lisa’s brainchild, tasteful but impersonal. I feel like I have no home to go back to: three whole months away from my friends, my boyfriend. I am completely alone.


I hang a piece of raw canvas on the wall and lay down garbage bags to protect the wood, playing Dead Kennedys on my computer. I attack it with all my fury.

I dip a fat paintbrush into jars of expensive acrylics, lined up on the floor. I start with primary colours, layering them on top of one another, thick and uneven, letting paint drip in the wake of swooping strokes. Fat globs of red, white and blue cling to rough edges. I add accents of ochre tones, whitish pinks, and eggplant-purple, like little fractals of light, intersecting with the different patches of colour. There are no delineated lines, no discernible shapes. I use the butt of my paintbrush to scratch lines in the paint. The underlying colours shine through like a child’s black-magic crayon drawings.

The canvas is large, so I can’t see the entire painting as I’m working. Usually I’m a very cerebral painter; I have a plan in mind when I start out and I proceed slowly, carefully. I’m feeling very Pollock-like now, though; every couple of minutes I stop and take a sip out of my glass of orange juice, to which I’ve added a generous amount of Absolut, not caring about the smudges of paint my dirty fingers leave on the plastic cup. Canvas is not exactly cheap, but there is nothing more cathartic than creating something immediate and beautiful out of something painful, so I let myself be messy. When I’m finished, I step back to take a good look at my work.

The canvas is a dripping mess. There is nothing redeeming about it.


I drop the paintbrush and screw the caps back on my paints. I run my stained hands through my hair. The paint tightens uncomfortably against my scalp, strands of hair stiffening into painted clumps. I finish off the vodka-orange juice and crunch the ice cubes between my teeth. I lie back on my bed. It’s been a while since I drank, and I’m still shaking with anger, and now, shame. The smell of the paint makes my head spin. I close my eyes.

There’s a knock at the door, and my doorknob turns. Ulrich knows that I never lock my door when I’m in my room. He comes in with a plate of cookies, smiling his sleepy smile. “Wow, you’re just in time,” I tell him.

I realize that I have no idea what time it is. It was about three in the afternoon when I called Ryan, and the sky has darkened significantly since then. When Ulrich sees me lying on the messy bedspread, with a hand on my throbbing forehead and a massacred canvas on the wall, he sets the plate on the counter and comes over to me, mercifully not saying a word about my painting, which has been hardening into a sludgy brown disaster.

“You want to come out with me tonight?” he says in that precise accent of his, kneeling down next to me. “It might be good for you.”

I nod. “Just let me shower first.”

When Ulrich leaves I pad across the hall to the bathroom and step into a hot shower. I watch the little trails of royal blue and rose-red slipping down the drain.


* * * * *

V

Coffeeshop selection is very much like choosing your favourite bar: there are the big popular ones where frat-boy types, tourists mostly, hang out and watch sports, not unlike the pubs back home. Most tourist manuals will tell you to try any of the Bulldog coffeeshops; you can find them on almost every corner - not unlike a Starbucks, which, incidentally, don’t exist over here – because they’re part of a large chain, and therefore trustworthy, but unless you actually are one of those frat-boy types it’s just a huddle of loud, obnoxious stoners who become louder and more obnoxious when their soccer team wins. The Coin, on the other hand, is tiny and dark, and the clientele consists mainly of harmless Beat poet wannabes browsing the Internet. Ulrich and I usually spend our nights here, then crash early, but tonight I’m feeling antsy.

We’re sitting in one of the big leather booths, facing away from the door. It’s still fairly early, so we don’t have to share our space with any artsy strangers just yet. The table is black, with patches of the original wood showing through; I peel at the paint as we share an ashtray. Ulrich smokes the stronger stuff and drinks a beer; I finally decide to have the same, instead of the weaker Orange Bud I usually get.

“Drugs are like religion,” Ulrich is saying, and I find his accent too funny to suppress my giggles. “No, really. You think you’re better than all that, until something bad happens. And then, suddenly, you realize that you really need them.”

“Only..” I begin to say, and I lose my train of thought. I start again. “Only at least religion can’t kill you.”

“Yes it can!” he exclaims, too loud. I laugh as his gesticulations become bigger, wilder.

Finally I suggest we get out of the dingy coffeeshop and go dancing on the Leidseplein. We’ve been drinking and smoking and generally ignoring the topic of Ryan in conversation for a couple hours now and I’m feeling better. It’s not a long walk to the Leidseplein from our area, and the night air is crisp but comfortable. We walk on shaky legs, taking exaggerated strides and laughing about it. Ulrich is trying to expand on his drugs-as-religion theory and I’m muttering to myself about my failed painting, both of us apparently lost in our own minds.


We get to Splash, so named for the waterfalls encased in glass surrounding the dance floor, and slip in without a problem. The music is mostly American house, but every now and then a thoroughly European dance track interrupts the familiar lineup, and every time it does I cheer. Ulrich and I are on the dance floor and packed in close - apparently, though, not close enough, as a tall man with black hair and a tight T-shirt gets between the two of us and puts his hands on my hips. At first I go along with it. I toss my hair, feeling spiteful, and dance with him. We dance through one track, two. As he leans in and puts his lips against my neck I realize that he has steered me away from Ulrich and I begin to panic.

I pull away. “Sorry, I have to go,” I say, but he keeps pulling me closer. He smiles and shakes his head. My stomach is starting to churn. The lights are bothering me; big blotches of red and yellow flash in front of my eyes. “Let me go!” I say, as the dark-haired man tightens his grip on my hips, just shy of bruising.

“Ulrich!” I call out.

Then there’s a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see a familiar blond head right behind me.

“Leave her alone,” Ulrich says to the man, who ignores him. My head is spinning, the man in front of me and my friend behind me blurring together. He is trying to pull me away from Ulrich again. “Stop,” I groan, beginning to lose my footing.

I barely register what is happening when I hear a loud crunch, and I realize that Ulrich’s fist has connected with the man’s nose. His grip around my waist finally slackens. The man is on the floor, and his nose is bleeding. Ulrich grabs me by the wrist and I look up in time to see two blond security guards coming towards us; Ulrich is in front of me with one hand on my arm, dragging us out of the club.

We don’t stop running until we’ve turned a corner, and the security guards have given up. I collapse in a heap on the sidewalk, taking deep breaths as Ulrich sits down next to me, quiet. My pulse begins to slow and I realize that I’ve never seen Ulrich get violent before.

“Thank you,” I say to him.

After a few minutes sitting in silence, Ulrich stands, pulling me to my feet by my hands. He slips one arm around my shoulder as we walk back to the hostel. We take our time, and I breathe in the night air. My head is still spinning, and it’s a relief to escape the blazing neon of the Leidseplein. The sky is a rich midnight blue and when I look up, and I can see stars so bright that I have to squint.


When we get back to the hostel, Ulrich invites me to his room. I tell him that I should probably just go lie down.

“At least let me give you something to eat,” he says. “You look very pale.”

I sit on his bed and watch in amazement as he whips up a snack in seconds, throwing together homemade treats that he’s been storing in his fridge, apparently for just such an occasion; oatmeal cupcakes frosted with strawberry sugar icing and fresh fruit, artfully sliced and diced. He knows better than anyone the healing powers of sugar.

“Cooking is like religion,” he says with a goofy smile. “You think it is a waste of time until something bad happens, and then you realize that you really need a cupcake.”

I laugh. “That sounds familiar,” I say, and sink my teeth into the oatmeal.

We sit in silence for a while, picking at the plate of food. My head feels heavier and heavier, and I close my eyes.


* * * * *

VI

When I wake up the sky is a muted grey and I can hear rain pattering down onto the cobblestones. I am asleep on Ulrich’s bed, tucked under the covers. He is sleeping beside me, breathing evenly. I sit up in bed and my stomach lurches; the dank brightness of the white light streaming through the thin curtains hurts my eyes. On the floor next to the bed I see the half-eaten cupcake and some squished fruit, and I remember my friend’s sweetness the night before. I kiss him on the cheek and he stirs, but his eyes stay closed.

Ulrich’s room is laid out the same way as mine; as I rifle through his kitchen cabinets I’m struck by how similarly we organize our kitchen equipment. My utensils of choice are a frying pan and a wooden spoon – I’m no culinary student, but I can scramble a mean egg. I open the fridge and find organic eggs, peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms. I pull some basil off a spice rack; Ulrich has lectured me before on the delicate art of seasoning. I make enough for two, a paltry attempt at saying thanks.


After a suitably soothing breakfast with my grateful companion, I leave to shower and change into clean clothes. The day stretches before me, virtually free of obligations. Back in my room, I try to decide whether this should be a museum day or not. In the meantime, I set about cleaning up my embarrassing mess from the night before.

I tackle the dirty dishes and the unmade bed first; I clean and store my paints and brushes, I throw out the garbage bags covered in paint drips. Finally, I have to face my failure of an artwork. It hurts to stare at it. I use a scraper to flatten the bumpy areas of the canvas and use several layers of whitewash until it is nothing but blank space again – waste not, want not.

Maybe it’s because I know that there is an entire layer of paint beneath this white surface, but it strikes me that even this void is very beautiful – the whiteness strikes me as a work already in progress. I sit back on my bed and stare at it thoughtfully. After a while, my eyes stray towards the phone. My head pounds just a little harder as I engage the lifeless thing in a starting match.

I look away.

I take my sketchbook out of a drawer and place it on my lap, drawing small, simple forms, an idea forming in my mind. It’s no noble ideal, but it’s a start. I trace sinuous pencil lines into the canvas, stepping back every few minutes to make the tiniest erasure. When the outline is complete it’s an abstract form; petal-like shapes radiating from a center point, not quite flower-like, but close. The object is just slightly off-center in this ocean of white, but it looks right to me. My mind is already racing ahead to colours, patterns and shading, but I hesitate.

I can see the telephone out of the corner of my eye; it’s not going anywhere.


“Hello?” Ryan picks up, his voice muzzy. I realize that it’s still very early in the morning back home, and he has the day off. I can picture him, messy hair, t-shirt and boxers, barely registering that it’s me on the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “I mean, about calling so early. And everything else also.” I sink down onto my bed, lying on my back, staring at the wall where my canvas faces me, incomplete. “I guess I didn’t tell you I was leaving because I knew we would have to talk about it, and I didn’t want to. I know I shouldn’t have done that. I knew it wouldn’t make me any happier.”

“You might not be happy either way,” Ryan says, ever the philosopher. “But at least if you had told me you wouldn’t be feeling guilty now.”

There is another knock at my door. Ulrich seems to have a sixth sense about these kinds of confrontations, probably because he so skillfully avoids all confrontation himself. It reminds me of the night before; it’s nice to know that I have a friend here, when situations get tough, but he can’t be involved in this one. He opens my door a crack but I wave him away. He nods and shuts the door again, as I mouth “I’ll talk to you later”.

“You still there?”

“I’m still here,” I say, “Sorry.”

“Look,” Ryan says, and I cringe. “I can’t forgive you just like that. We need to talk about this when you get home.”

I nod, invisible to him, touching the back of my head to my forehead. I don’t express the frustration I’m feeling. “I love you, Ryan.”

“Yeah, I love you too,” he says.


After our conversation, I feel calm. Ryan was right; I don’t feel any happier, but a weight has been lifted. I did the right thing. And something tells me that we would work through this. I’m not angry with him anymore, and all Ryan needs is some time to let his own temper cool. I let out a long breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding in.

I take out my paints, the simple acrylics that go on thick and dry quickly in their vibrant hues. Instead of using prefab purples and oranges and so on, I mix primary colours on a wooden board to make my own custom shades just as I imagine them, painting in the flower-like shapes with patches of colour, blending them into one another. I use a thin brush to trace sinuous black outlines. I get just as messy as I had during my earlier attempt, but this time the paint drying on my skin feels comforting, cleansing. When I step back this time, I breathe a sigh of relief.


It’s nearly dusk when it occurs to me that I still haven’t left my apartment, and even though I feel relaxed I’m going stir-crazy, trapped between the four white walls. The room smells like paint fumes and my stomach hasn’t fully recovered from the night before. I open the window but the air that filters in is thick and muggy. I decide to take a walk, washing the dried paint from my arms and legs and putting on a pair of clean shorts. I consider knocking on Ulrich’s door but in the end I decide against it, not in the mood to talk food or art for the moment.

Walking around here is tricky. I usually feel safe, and there are plenty of people milling around outside, but every so often I still stumble into the red-light district, which is not so far from where I’m living, and am made painfully aware of the fact that I am a young girl in shorts, walking all by her lonesome. I look in shop windows, full of strange adorable knickknacks: silver pig-shaped piggy banks, lava lamps, books on marijuana and mushrooms, souvenir smiley-face key chains. The tattoo parlors stay open late, and people migrate from bars to the studios, getting tattooed in plain sight in well-lit rooms, all of them surprisingly clean. Small stores sell fried food and waffle-shaped cookies with bright pink and blue icing. I watch people talking, eating, and I don’t think about anything, taking it all in.

A burly American type standing outside of a Bulldog grabs me by the hand. “Come hang out with us!” he slurs. He’s football-player big, and my pulse quickens. I pull my hand away, staying calm, and keep walking. Nobody follows me. It’s a small but significant victory.

I walk for another twenty minutes or so, until the sky is dark and the air cools. I close the windows in my room, shivering a little. I take the canvas down and lay it flat on the floor between my bed and the wall. I crawl beneath my sheets.

It’s still fairly early, but I turn out the light; I do have work tomorrow, after all.


* * * * *


Epilogue

I fly through the night and come home to a totally new apartment. The walls are lily-white, designer-white, with grey and purple accents, my simple black and white furniture, vintage throw pillows with silver threads for a touch of chic. It is the apartment of a sophisticated woman, when I’m not much more than a cheap young artist. The place smells of fresh paint. I love it.

I climb into bed with a worn stuffed animal that Ryan and I adopted, my luggage tossed carelessly in one beautiful corner. My eyes close and almost instantly I'm asleep.


Lisa looks over-worked but happy. Her apartment has a languid garden; we’re sipping green tea and eating homemade ginger biscuits, a recipe Ulrich gave me as a parting gift - he sends me a new one every week. The summer months are drawing to a close but the weather hasn’t changed yet; a warm breeze blows through our hair and our breezy t-shirts flutter. Flower fragrances waft over from velveteen rosebushes, tiger lilies, the occasional bright dandelion. Peonies bloom like thick pink cabbages, tangled in shiny sharp leaves, and an enormous lilac tree hangs over our heads. Lisa snaps pictures of the two of us with her expensive camera. We share stories, licking crumbs from our fingers as she squeals over Ulrich; especially the way he rescued me at the club – “So romantic!” – and her face falls when I tell her that in his last letter he mentioned that he met a cute boy in his pastry class. Lisa says she’s been bored back home, with nothing to report but friends who have broken up, gotten into fights, and so on - the same old gossip. I’m happy to be home.


That night we go out to dinner, toasting my homecoming with inexpensive red wine. The food has just arrived when Ryan calls. I look over at Lisa, for permission. She nods, and I excuse myself to the washroom. "Welcome home," he says into the phone - I had forgotten how much I love his voice, boyish and raspy, "I missed you.”

When I sit back down at the table, Lisa smiles a knowing smile and I turn my attention to my plate. I smile back.


"So, if you had to live your life an infinite number of times, could you?” He twines his fingers in my tangled hair.

"I’m think I’m getting there,” I tell him. “I’m doing what I can."

"I think that’s still pretty pessimistic," he laughs, kissing my shoulder. “And I think that,” he says, looking up at the wall, “Is very beautiful.” My painting faces us, an amalgamation of curving lines and impressionistic colours, abstract shapes - I named it Stoners Reinventing Cuisine, and Ulrich loved it. In the end, Mondrian, it seems, was just a starting point; the painting is not a masterpiece, but when I look at it I will always see the tentative beginnings of something personal, or maybe their ending. And it is pretty lovely, after all. Ryan puts his head on my shoulder and closes his eyes.

If I had to live every moment an infinite number of times, I wouldn't regret this one.


* * * * *



Also, I'm reading a chapter at Marianopolis this Thursday, April 17, at 12:45.