Chapter 36:
In the Service of Gods
The parameters of the art competition were simple. We would each be given half an hour to draw a portrait. At the end of that time, our work would be shown to everyone and they would each vote for the piece they liked the best. Whoever had the most votes won. Yes, having his hired crew as judges wasn’t exactly fair but my loss was a foregone conclusion, so I didn’t press the matter. The medium would be charcoal on parchment, both of which Cyril had on his person. The time would be calculated using an hourglass, which Cyril also had, though he refused to elaborate on why. The model would be Mizuki, who would be barred from voting to ensure there couldn’t be a tie.
Mizuki wasn't pleased about this, but Cyril insisted.
“You are the loveliest being here. Even if I were to draw someone else, my eyes would be drawn to you,” he said with a smug grin. He’d even managed to work a pun in there which made me hate him even more.
We retreated into the forest somewhat so we didn’t block the road and to get what Cyril referred to as “effervescent lighting”. This lighting was found in a clearing where the sun’s rays lit a rock “marvelously”. Mizuki would sit on the rock and wait until it was time.
My palms had begun to sweat. It had been a year since I’d done any drawing, and even longer since I’d done any traditional drawing. I remember being attached to my tablet for hours, bringing my visions to life. Drawing on paper was harder for me. It shouldn’t matter, given that the idea was Cyril would win regardless. It was just that the last time anyone had seen my art was when I’d sent my portfolio off to apply for art school.
I wiped my palms on my pants and took a deep breath. The air was suffused with pine, the wind dampened by the trees. We’d scared off any animals, leaving the clearing quiet apart from ourselves. Cyril’s hired help stayed well away from Vris, leaving her to hover close to me without looking over my shoulder.
“Are you ready, peasant?” Cyril asked.
I nodded. The hourglass was flipped and the competition began.
Cyril was fast out the gate, completing his portrait in seconds. I wasn’t counting, but it couldn’t have been more than ten. His hand moved so quickly, it was just a colorful blur above the page, untrackable to the naked eye. When I glanced over at his work, it took my breath away. The detail he was able to accomplish was incredible. He’d drawn not just Mizuki, but the rock she sat on and the trees behind her. The result was a photo-realistic portrait.
He sat back to admire his work, then lay the image down and started a new one. I realized he was going to continue making portraits for as long as he had time, and presumably parchment. As fascinating as it was to watch him work, I had my own portrait to focus on.
Sweet relief hit me when I realized I still had some muscle memory. All I learned about perspective and proportion lurked in my subconscious and flowed into my wrist. I would only have one shot at this, no undo button and no eraser. I decided not to worry about the rock or the scenery behind Mizuki, there simply wasn’t the time to incorporate them. Mizuki’s face and upper body would be visible, that was it.
Sweat beaded on my forehead. It was slowly coming together. Rather than going with a style that mimicked photography, I was shooting for a more illustrated approach. The result would still be identifiable as Mizuki, only changed. I used my pinky to blend, smoothing the gray streaks into layers of darkness and light. Contentment bubbled in my chest, warring with my nervousness. Despite it all, I was enjoying this.
“Time!” Vris shouted.
I stopped. My portrait was complete in the sense that Mizuki had all the right components, her nose and such were there, I only wished I had more time to finesse it. I could see places where I wanted to tweak it this way or that. Forcing myself to look away, I glanced at what Cyril created.
In the time it took me to do one portrait, Cyril had done fifteen.
“I would have done more, but sadly I ran out of parchment,” he lamented.
It was like looking at a camera reel. Some of the pieces were from further away, some close up. I noticed that, similar to a camera, if something unideal happened, Cyril captured it regardless. Mizuki was blinking in one of the pieces. In another, she was pulling at a piece of hair that the wind had pushed into her mouth.
“Now, it’s time to vote.” He turned to his followers. “All those in favour of voting for my pieces, please raise your hand.”
I frowned at Cyril. “Hold on. You have to choose which pieces to submit. You can’t just submit all of them. It’s a one on one competition.”
He scowled at me and muttered something under his breath. He surveyed his work, then plucked up one of his pieces. In this one, Mizuki was fairly small with the surrounding clearing taking up most of the space. It struck me as lonely, one woman being dwarfed by an unfeeling forest. He held his piece out for all to see and I followed suit.
I struggled to keep my face smooth as everyone scrutinized my piece. Cyril hadn’t even given it a second glance.
“I vote for this one,” Vris said, pointing to mine. During a whispered discussion right before the competition, it was agreed we wouldn’t use any of our names unless absolutely necessary.
Cyril rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Now the rest of you, place your votes.”
Of the six others, five voted for Cyril’s. The last to vote, a gruff man, pointed at mine.
“That one,” he said.
Cyril gawked at him. “What? Hers? What does hers have that mine doesn’t?”
“It looks like a drawing. Yours doesn’t. Yours is unnatural.” His words were measured and matter of fact. Photo realism was beautiful, but I imagined seeing someone reproduce life with just a flick of their wrist before the photograph was dreamt of could be bizarre. And of course, beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
“Not that it matters,” Cyril said quickly, in a way that meant it really did matter. “At five votes to two, I win.”
Even knowing that I would lose, the words still stung. A lump formed in my throat. I would not cry, I refused to.
Seeing my distress only made Cyril more pleased. “It’s as you said, peasant. I’ve humiliated you. I’m sure your master would be embarrassed to see what you produced.”
Part of me wanted to shout that I was self taught from hundreds of online videos. They were all my master and none of them were my master. I swallowed it down and hung my head.
“Here,” he said, tossing his piece at my feet. “Keep it. It’ll remind you of what real art is.”
His piece stared up at me, mocking me with its god-like skill.
“I’m hungry,” Cyril declared. “Let’s return to Bhojin.”
The crew were clearly surprised that they weren’t going to do whatever it was they’d been hired to do, but they all left without a word. I snatched his piece of the ground and ripped it into pieces, scattering the remains around like ashen snow. Rip by rip, I did the same to his other pieces. Then it came time to rip mine. What else was I going to do with it?
I was gripping both sides of my pieces when Mizuki said, “Wait.”
I paused, looking at her.
“May I have it?” she asked. Her cheeks were dusted with pink.
The request took me aback. “Ah, sure. I guess.” I handed her the parchment. She rolled it up into a neat tube and tucked it into her pocket.
“I’ve never had a portrait done of me,” she admitted. “And I liked yours better than his. Seems a shame to waste it.”
“You’re such a good artist,” Vris added. “Don’t let that. . . man get to you.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding glum.
We returned to the road and set off at a brisk pace. I’d lost this time. Hopefully that meant a victory was on the horizon.
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