Chapter 39: The Artist | Chapter Eleven
"Do you want some?" I shook my head at Toby's offer, waving dismissively at the sweets in the bowl on his table. I was helping to move the old paintings by graduate students out of the art room to make space for the works of next year's new students. Toby shrugged, taking a taffy before heading over to help me with the board sized canvas I was trying to move on my own.
"Leave it. I'll take it, don't worry," he said, making me let go of the canvas, and allowing him to pick it up with ease. I headed to pick up the last but lighter painting we had to move, and I then followed him out the art room to the storage room where we'd been arranging the artworks in a neat tilted stack by the wall.
"Gosh, sooner or later we'll have to empty this place out too," he laughed, turning to me with a smile. He had on a simple grey long-sleeved shirt on, and he'd rolled the sleeves up, so that he could work with more ease.
"What happens to most of the artwork?" I asked, realizing what he meant by moving them out of the storage as well.
"They get burnt, or sold — anything but be left hugging up space here. Some graduated students do come back to get their works, but most of them don't, which is understandable. Most of them took arts as an elective, and it doesn't really mean too much to them," Toby explained as we left the storage room together. It was nearing noon and didn't have a class to take for the rest of the day, while my next class was in a few hours.
When we got back to the art room, Toby made to continue the painting he'd started yesterday. He'd propped his stand a little distance away from his desk and was currently adding dabs of paint to the piece he was working on as he sucked on a sweet he'd picked up from the bowl on his desk. I worked on my own drawing composition, taking advantage of the silence to think about what I'd done so that I could make the required tweaks and corrections.
"You paint a lot," I said, looking up to watch him blend the watercolor to produce a fogged-out effect. He shrugged, touching the running paint with a dry rag.
"I paint to relieve stress — so, I guess I'm stressed a lot," he said with a dry laugh. I found myself bothered by it.
I might have touched a nerve.
"You're still working on compositions for your exhibition? Isn't it coming up soon?" he asked, changing the topic.
"It is," I started, biting my bottom lip as I watched him move from side to side, inspecting his own painting. "But we don't have a deadline for submissions, really. We just have to hand everything in the day before the exhibition. That's all."
"Ah," Toby replied with a nod. He turned away from his painting, dipping and shaking his paintbrush in the bowl of already murky water on the stool by his stand to wash it. Silence took over again, and Toby returned to painting while I shifted my focus to my sketchpad again. As I adjusted the drawing of the dancing couple, my mind wandered to Toby's house and all the canvases that had been resting against the walls. I looked up from my drawing, biting my bottom lip as I watched Toby paint as he hummed a song under his breath. I turned my eyes away from him to look at the clock by the art room's entrance, to realize I had only an hour to the class I was supposed to take.
"I'll have to rent another apartment and treat it like a storage at this rate," Toby laughed, making me turn my gaze to him. He'd stepped away from his painting now. It was done — finished. I was amazed by how fast he was – he was even quicker than me.
"You could sell them," I offered, watching him turn to me before he shook his head.
"Nah," he laughed, taking the painting off the stand before propping it against the wall to dry. "I don't need the money, really, and some of my paintings are too personal to give away — some of them aren't even mine."
"Oh," I said, not knowing how to reply to that. I had questions I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of coming off as prying or too nosy. So, I kept them to myself. Toby smiled at me, heading over to take the seat behind his desk before putting his laptop on.
"Some of the painting are of, or are by Brendan — my art history professor from back in college..." Toby trailed. He didn't look up, he just continued to type into his PC. He soon let out a small laugh, sighing before he took a hand away from his laptop's keyboard to run through his hair. "I'm so ridiculous. Brendan and I destroyed each other, and here I am still holding on to things that involve him. I'm not sure what's wrong with me..."
"Nothing's wrong with you," I spoke up, making him look up to stare at me. His eyes were wide with what looked like surprise. It seemed like he hadn't even realized what he was talking about.
"Jesus, I'm not sure when I started babbling..." he trailed, looking away as he covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry. I need some time to calm down."
"Okay," I muttered under my breath, unsure if he even heard what I had said. After about half an hour the class I was supposed to take came in. Toby was still at his desk, but he had his head rested on its surface, and he wasn't saying or doing anything. Even after I was done with the class and headed back to my desk, I noticed that he was still in the same position.
I started to get worried, but I didn't know what to do. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding when he raised his head, but the sight of him made my heart sink, and all my previous relief vanished. He looked tired, crushed and frustrated all at the same time.
"What time is it?" he asked, making me look over to my phone.
"Almost three," I answered, watching him nod at that.
"That's great," he said as he rested his head on his desk again. I wasn't sure what was happening. Was he having a mental breakdown?
"Just a while till we can leave then..." he trailed as I watched him stretch out his hand to grab a sweet from the bowl sitting on his desk. "I'm not even sure I'll leave early..."
My eyes widened when I noticed the first signs of tears staining his cheeks. He seemed to realize my shock, so he turned away — hiding from my view.
"I'm sorry. I'm such a mess," he said with a small choked laugh. "I start talking about the past, and somehow I always end up getting overwhelmed so I break down."
"Have you seen a therapist?" I asked. I didn't know much, but I knew most people looked for some sort of professional help for things like this. Toby looked terrible, and I didn't know what to do to change that. I felt helpless. After a while of him not saying anything in response, I looked away from him, making to pack up my things and leave, but I paused in my tracks on the way to the door when I heard Toby sob. I clenched the straps of my backpack, looking from the art room's door to him. Thinking about it briefly, I started to head to him, dropping my bag on the ground beside his desk before making to put a hand on his shoulder in comfort.
"Do you need anything?" I asked, bending over a bit so that I was on the same level as his face. I could feel my eyes stinging too. His pain was causing me pain, and it was frustrating because I couldn't comprehend what was happening to him enough for me to be of much help. He was just breaking down in front of me.
"Anything at all?" I asked when he didn't give me an answer. He shook his head against his folded arms and then turned his head to the side so that I had a full view of his now red face.
"Don't worry about me, just go home," he muttered. I ignored him, moving to run a hand through his hair. He seemed to tense up a bit, but he relaxed soon after. I felt a little happy from the small success at comfort.
"You know..." he trialed, smiling a bit. "I said I didn't need anything, but can you keep your hand there? It's comforting."
I nodded, not trusting myself enough to say anything. He just stared at me as I continued to run my fingers through his locks, but he eventually shut his eyes. I took my hand away when I noticed that he'd dozed off and was now asleep — it looked like a peaceful one. I then picked up my backpack again and left the art room, closing the door behind me slowly as I was mindful not to disturb Toby. I headed home, but the incident filled my thoughts for the rest of the day. I couldn't help wondering what on earth could have happened between him and his former art professor to cause so much pain years after.
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