Page 101 of The Edge of Always

I look between the model and the blank canvas.

Everyone thinks that with life modelling you’re all thinking the same thing – that there’s a naked person in the room – and maybe some people are, but I’ve never felt like that. I’ve always been excited to capture the realness, or as close to it as I could. That’s what I’ve always loved about art. No matter how good at it we are, we can never fully capture the human experience. Even the most accurate depiction of a human form is just that, a depiction. And yet we keep trying.

It’s probably another reason why I quit art, though. Because who wants to study the human form when my own is so persistently lacking?

I try to push the thought from my mind, focus instead on the model – the shape of her back as it curls over, the rise of her knee. I’m trying to sketch it out, to let myself bleed into the ebb and flow of the scratching of my pencil. I’m out of practice, and my swollen hand is cramping; it makes each stroke fragile, delicate and lovely, and I think that’s it, isn’t it – no matter how fragile we are, we’re still lovely. No matter how thin the line between life and death becomes, no matter how much some of us might feel like we’re straddling both worlds, the living and the dead, so long as we can make art, we are life and life is us.

Louis, now back and with a lit cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, raises his eyebrows and nods as he walks past behind me. I don’t draw for approval, though, you can’t – it’s too subjective.

Earl taught me that art is what we make it. I see art everywhere, or at least I used to. Art magnifies the human experience. That’s why I stopped.

I’ve been trying to make my life as small as possible.

Maybe that’s been the whole point of this thing. Perhaps Earl’s art was never about beauty, or fun, or people, or death, or choices for that matter. It was about feeling something, anything, this whole time.

And I do feel, as I draw. I feel the wonder of a blank canvas becoming full, the marvel that we can do this. Humans can make art and know that they’re making art. It’s pretty miraculous if you think about it, that as a species we can make anything interesting, just by looking at it a little differently.

I’m so full, yet it’s a flicker of a moment before the time is up, and the model is putting her robe back around her. I hardly even recognise my drawing. It’s an outline. ‘There’s a hollow emptiness; this is very intriguing,’ Louis says, and I realise he’s right. I’ve done a lot of shadow and shading on the outside, but I’ve left the inside completely blank. ‘Darkness,’ he finishes. He pronounces his s’s as z’s.

It’s possible that I’ve just drawn my trauma, but I don’t have time to dwell on it because a man in a lilac suit is coming towards me.

‘Excuse me, miss, but do I recognise you?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I tell him, hoping that we’re not about to have a repeat of MAM here.

‘I thought the same thing,’ a woman pipes up. She’s wearing a poncho; she looks like a giant bat. ‘From the Earl Spencer piece. She is a lot like you.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ I’m not entirely sure what to say, so much for flying under the radar.

‘Yes, yes, it is you. Your hair is very unique. How fascinating.’ The woman is really close to my face. ‘Did you know Spencer?’

At this point the other artists are heading our way, all peering. I take it they’ve all been to the new exhibit.

For a moment, before the fear sets in, I feel pride for Earl. All these artists know who he is. It’s amazing, I wish he was here to see it.

‘Yes,’ I say proudly, my heart beating a heavy beat, even though my voice is shaky. ‘We knew him when we were children.’

The crowd make all the right cooing noises.

The pink lady claps her hands together really fast several times. ‘I must interview you. The man behind the artist.’ She holds his hands up to make a square. ‘I can see it now. You will give us the inside scoop.’

‘Interview me, what for?’ I look and feel quite alarmed.

‘Rise Art. It is my little, how you say? Magazine. We were the first to cover the exhibit.’

Rise Art. That’s the link that Mae sent me. The art world is small.

I don’t have time to reply, though, because Louis is urging me into the back room. His partner is there, looking sullen. The air is thick with smoke, which really isn’t good for me. It’s basically a storage cupboard we’re talking in, with art leaning against every inch of wall.

‘Gregor said you were very beautiful,’ the man in the Hawaiian shirt says, and I think he’s very grumpy for a person wearing a shirt with palm trees all over it. Amidst the smoke, it takes a short second for my brain to realise what’s happening.

‘What, Gregor, as in Earl’s broker? You know him? What can you tell me about the painting?’

The shirt man throws Louis a dirty look and makes a pft sound, but my mind is racing. The painting. Gregor. Rise Art. It’s as if all the pieces are there, but they won’t fit together and give me the answer I need.

‘But Gabriel, she is in the painting.’ The way Louis pronounces his t’s in English makes him sound more French than if he were just speaking French.

‘This does not matter. We made a promise.’