Just a Nimbus

Just a Nimbus

I’m not quite sure how he got in here, and quite frankly, I didn’t want to know.

“Well, Mister Parker?” Gerald O’Reilly, a CEO of Artists America, or so I was told, held his hand out, eyes peering at me with relative intrigue. His whole stature gave the impression of someone far more intellectual than appearances gave. It was exhausting to think about.

I reached my hand out hesitantly, taking his in my own for a very short amount of time before returning it back to its tight fist at my side. I was not a people person and if he had done his homework, I’m sure he would have known this. “Well?”

“Well what?” he replied, brow raised. “Is something wrong with my visit?”

I contained a scoff that nearly came out do to natural reflex. “You come into my dorm, entreat some form of pleasantries, then expect that I won’t question your reasoning?”

A smirk appeared now, amusement filling his features with odd warmth. His heavy brows were quite the oddity; thick, caterpillar-like things that were constantly in danger of blinding him. Another discerning quality. “I suppose you’re right. I should probably explain myself–”

“Please do.”

His expression once again changed, arms crossing over his chest in a less casual manner. His form of dress, which I noted to be rather unflashy, had been something of interest to me, though I would never stand to admit it. Merely that, for someone who appeared to think so highly of himself, he was far from the meticulous dresser. His clothing – a cardigan, jeans, and a graphic t-shirt – implied youthful eccentricity, yet the worn edges and the small holes gave the impression that he was weary and down on his luck. Those eyes, though… no, they spoke of something a little more ambitious than either of those two choices.

If I was correct, it had been this ambition that lead him here.

“As I’ve noted prior, I am the CEO of Artists America,” he stated plainly. “We’ve been scoping out your work for a while now and at this present time, we would like to offer you a commission piece.”

He paused, waited for a reaction that never came, then continued soberly.

“This job,” he said, “is to create a mural along the south wall of our main building. We’ll pay $1,500 beforehand plus an additional $500 when the piece is completed. All materials will be provided including whatever tools you instruct us to buy. It is completely up to you what the subject matter should contain as long as it’s purely original.”

This time he did not continue after he paused. His eyes implored mine with earnest.

“Is that all?” I asked. I was already bored with the idea.

He turned his gaze away suddenly as if this was the part he feared most. Instead, they strayed to the mess that was my cot with about as much determination as he could muster towards something so insignificant to his cause. “Well, there is one more thing you should probably know.”

“Well?”

He spoke hesitantly, “You will not be painting the entirety of this piece. It is a combined effort between you and twenty other artists of similar aptitude.”

With that, every ounce of my desire towards the project dissipated. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I would urge you to reconsider,” he replied, brows furrowing. “It is not usual that someone should get such a chance.”

“Then pick someone else,” I said, “if this is such an honour.”

He stood there as if not wishing to leave quite yet. It was a bit annoying, really. I had much better things to do then listen to someone speak business propositions I had no want in partaking. Even more so did I find his reasoning to be fruitless and selfish. I would not be a toy, nor would my art.

But he looked so desperate.

“You can leave.”

He moved, but not towards the door. The window, in fact. He stood before it, hands clasped behind his back. “Come here.”

I could feel my teeth clench, but obliged nonetheless. The faster we were through with this little game, the faster I would be back to more important matters. “What do you want?”

“For you to look outside.”

I stood beside him, turning my eyes towards the cyan sky above. A normal afternoon for late spring. The quad would be filled with chattering students, all as talented as I though lacking discipline. The free, artistic mind could not be shaped on skill alone; at least, as far as any of us knew.

“Can you count all the clouds you see?” he asked. A silly question. There were far too many even if I hadn't wanted to which, subsequently, I did not.

I gave no answer. He continued anyways.

“I can’t,” he said. “And I wouldn’t bother with it even if I could. Not every cloud in the sky will be accounted for.”

“It’s just a cloud.”

He smiled. “Yes. Just a cloud.”

I crossed my arms, watching a nimbus drift by with a restless impatience. It seemed more and more apparent that this was merely a silly attempt at stalling me.

“They don’t do much on their own,” he said finally, breaking the apparent silence. “But if they formed together, think of the storm they’d cause. The power. The thunder.”

“I’m not asking for a lesson.”

“I’m not here to teach one.” He turned his eyes towards mine in that manner that caused my emotions to stir once more. “After all, I’m just an artist. I can’t do much on my own.”

“Yes. Just an artist.” The smirk that crossed my cheeks came of its own accord. “But together, we could create something more than that, huh?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Maybe that intrigues me,” I said.

“I was hoping, just maybe, that it would.”

~~