So much like her...
 
I rushed hurriedly down the corridors of Yamaku high, keeping a high pace as I tried to avoid bumping into students and teachers alike. A difficult task at the best of times, but only made harder by the paintings I carried underneath my right arm. It had been my own fault, of course. As I had strolled down the grounds, my eyes had fallen upon a most splendid scenery, a veritable still-life of fauna and flora in bloom. Before I knew it, I had been standing there for several minutes, lazily following the motions of butterflies, tracing the winds that enveloped the blooming flowers and other plants and set so much poetry in motion.
 
It had taken me too long to think, and if it had not been for my absent-minded retrieval of the pocket watch I carried, I would have likely stood there all afternoon, just admiring nature creating art on its own accord. However, as that was not the case, I was instead harshly reminded of my duties by the cruel servant of time itself: that old pocket watch I carried with me, and which I held so dear to me, even when it betrayed me and tore me from such amazing sights.
 
At last, I had managed to reach the door to the classroom I knew so well, and which had become the center of my attention for years. With some effort, I managed to open the door and struggled through, careful not to inadvertently ruin any of the paintings I had taken with me. After laying them down on the desk, I turned to my eager art students, their faces painted bright by the afternoon sun, some looking eager to start, others seemingly less interested, although not apparently bored enough to leave. I cleared my throat and addressed them.
'Good afternoon, faithful artists! And my sincerest apologies for my tardiness. However, as it occurred, I was halted outside by a most splendid view. Nature, at its finest, young pupils! Just standing there took me back to days of old, when the spring air betrayed itself so early on, and brought with it the temptations of summer, and the freedom of spending time out in the world...'
 
It took quite a long time before I realized my voice was still ringing through the classroom, having apparently traced off into a monologue of ages past and memories long gone. I forced myself out of it and beamed brightly at the art club students, whose politeness had not allowed them to interrupt my recalling of the past and its implications on my perspectives of art.
'But enough of that. Today, I want to have a little question round before we get started on our projects. Does anyone have a pressing matter on their minds?'
One hand was raised, somewhat timidly. I recognized the face, although the name had passed me by some time ago. She made excellent charcoal sketches, although she lacked the drive and ambition to turn talent into true art.
'About what you said earlier- does art change as you get older?'
'An excellent question, young lady, and I am glad you asked it!'
I sat back on the desk, staring up at the ceiling for a bit. Lost in thought, I removed my glasses for a bit and fondled them absent-mindedly as I formulated my answer in a way that could inspire these young people to appreciate the finer nuances of art to all ages.
'We often see beautiful art, and appreciate it for its beauty. Some of us, too, at a young age, see art that is not objectively beautiful, but appeals to something within us. An emotion or experience, perhaps. We may see within imperfection a reflection of ourselves, and appreciate it all the more for what it manages to be despite its flaws. As we grow older, our experiences run deeper and wider, and art becomes clearer to us. Not just its objective qualities, but its connection to ourselves as well. So when we age, art does not change, but we do. And this may have an impact on our perspective and experience of art and artists.'
'But then, is it possible that art we liked loses meaning as we get older?' Another student piped up, the question apparently haven roused the class to a somewhat more alert state.
'It can happen. But quite often, as we age, we appreciate our past a lot more, and these pieces of art that impressed us early on remind us on who we were, and what they meant to us then. I, myself, still look back fondly at some of the earliest paintings I purchased, appreciating them for their inherent emotional value as much as their objective quality.'
 
The discussion went on for some time within the class, with most students taking an active interest in finding out what art meant for them, and whether or not this would continue in the future. In fact, it seemed as though only one student was not joining in on the discussion, opting instead to look outward, towards the orange-tinted skies and clouds. I decided not to call attention to her, though. Partially since the discussion was doing fine already, and partially because, as always, I had a personal preference for Tezuka's disinterest. It seemed as though she painted more focused after being lost in her own thoughts. It was one of the many things that reminded me of her...
 
But before I could get lost in my memories, the silence of the class drew its attention to me. Apparently, the well of discussion had run dry, and it was now up to me to provide the next course of action. I cleared my throat and, subsequently, my mind, before speaking.
'Today, we will be going on a wild streak. Mistakes do not matter; they are in fact, encouraged! I have here some samples of pieces that started out as accidentally placed strokes or smudges, and were then expanded into a full-fledged work. Of course, if you prefer to finish some older works or try something new entirely, that is also perfectly fine!'
 
After some hustling and chaos, the art club settled down over the classroom, paints, pencils and brushes in hand and activity buzzing around the room already. My eye was automatically drawn to Tezuka, who had yet to get up. The sun brought forth a gleaming shine over her red hair, creating a fiery image over her calm, seemingly placid eyes. Even from where I stood, I could see the reflection of the sun gleam in her giant emerald eyes, which even now stared vacantly at the outside world, as though whatever had happened inside the classroom was not applicable to her. In a way, it never was. I made no secret of my preferences, and Tezuka was the object of my attention for quite some time now. Of course other students had taken notice, but they did not seem too interested in why she was so precious to me, or even why she was allowed her own access to this room even when they were barred from entering. This worked out well enough, however, since it meant that I could enjoy Tezuka's works being finished at her own pace, without having to force her in any way. Sometimes, I wished I could force her to do more, to paint all day and not worry about classes or anything else. The things her art brought back to my mind often made it hard for me to remember that she was just a young girl, and not a memory that I could force myself to recall as many times as I wanted.
 
Tezuka stood up, drawing my eyes with her. With a few dizzy steps she positioned herself in front of an easel that had been occupying the classroom for weeks now, displaying her latest work in progress. She threw herself down, a more accurate description than saying she sat down, since she let herself fall back onto the stool as though she had lost all control over her upper body. For minutes, she sat still, her eyes now focused on the piece before her, as though it had been a story she was caught in retelling, trying to catch up to the point she had last left off. Away from the sunlight, her hair had dulled down and her eyes gained a certain hardness to them, as though being forced to deal with the harsh reality of art made her more solid than dealing with the thoughts of clouds and sky.
She gingerly leaned back and picked up her brush. As she started mixing paints, I turned away, savoring the anticipation of seeing her work evolve further as I would check on her later.
 
I made my way around the classroom, inspecting the works of students, occasionally offering some advice to those looking lost and compliments to those who were doing well. Today's exercise had apparently shaken loose some creative hinges, and I was seeing more order and precision in these pieces than I had intended. However, that mattered little to me. In fact, I was quite proud of these young artists, to so fervently take hold of the notion of perfection that intentionally making mistakes seemed too much for them. Some of them, however, had taken the exercise to heart, and their pieces started to take to abstract shapes and figures as misplaced lines and imperfect circles were forced to interact and match with one another.
My hopes of seeing this exercise further their development in art were feeling slightly lifted. I passed by a young man who had drawn a single line and, as a salvage attempt, had drawn circles in an attempt to find a shape he could give final form to in a way. He had apparently found it, as he was now feverishly placing strokes and setting lines with a look of utter concentration on his face. I decided not to break this concentrated state with advice or compliments, and instead turned to a girl who had taken to watercolors for this assignment.
'Quite daring, young lady! Very bold of you, to take intentional errors as a subject for such a strict medium as watercolors!'
She smiled in response, and I was quick to remind myself that this may have been one of the hearing-impaired students, to whom my comments would mean very little indeed. So, as an afterthought, I gave her a thumbs up and continued on my round.
 
After several minutes of trailing around the room, I could no longer contain my excitement. Stopping myself from running, I hurried over to Tezuka and stood in amazement as I saw her place another stroke on her work, adding to it yet more perfection. The way she moved made it look, to the casual observer, as though every stroke could be fatal, a pox on a beautiful face. But those who saw beyond that could see the concentrated gaze and careful, almost calculated motions that brought her art to life. It was easy to forget this when seeing her paint, though. Her lack of arms, a birth defect of sorts, would have taken the attention of most people seeing her paint. However, as an artist, I saw beyond merely the tools she used, and focused myself on her style.
It was eerie, really, how much her paintings spoke to me. They were often abstract, depicting human anatomy, but not in such ways as that most people would associate them with. The more I tried to understand what these paintings meant, the more I found myself lost not only in their meaning, but their form as well. When she first presented me with a finished painting, I sat with it for an entire afternoon in this very room, utterly lost in its forms, meaning and beauty. The way she played with shapes and forms, the way she used elements of differing styles in such blended perfection, the way each painting tried to reach out to some unseen element, as though crying out through a mouth sewn shut...
It reminded me, ever so much, of the way she used to paint.
 
Once again, I found myself nodding and humming approvingly at Tezuka's work. She did not seem bothered by it, although I found that she rarely seemed bothered by anything at all when painting. In fact, everything she did seemed disconnected, as though she kept the world at an arm's length at all times- a somewhat grim analogy, now that I think of it. But this did seem true, however, and even more so when she painted. Her feet moved with care at times, dabbing at places for times on end, before moving with lightning speed to apply a couple of rough strokes that added yet so much more depth and passion to the painting as a whole. But her face was set, as though painting was something she channeled, rather than something that came to her. Occasionally, she paused, and scrounged up her face with a look of difficulty, before applying yet another stroke, or swiping away at a different piece of the canvas. Never, during any of this, did she acknowledge the existence of anything outside of her, her painting and her paints.
'Beautiful work, Tezuka! I love the playful line work, and the form is coming together excellently!' I encouraged her, hesitating for a moment to slap her on the back, before deciding against it. She always seemed so frail when sitting, despite having shown great limberness in her movement.
'It's not what I want.' She said, in her usual deadpan tone. It was impossible to determine whether she was passionate about these things or just practical.
'No? Then what do you want in this painting?' I asked, eager for a look behind the work, and hoping for a satisfactory answer.
'It has to be more like... when you wake up, and you're not sure if you've gotten up yet, but you don't know if your feet are on the ground, and you don't want to try to stand, because maybe you're already standing and you'd trip over yourself and fall.' She closed her eyes, apparently trying to review what she just said. 'More like that.'
Silence came over us both after that. Mentally, I heaved a sigh. Trying to understand Tezuka had proven impossible to me. She operated on an entirely different level, and any attempt to find that level had been cut down already. By now, I was content with her just answering me, even if it meant trying to figure out such awkward sentences as the one she had just spouted.
 
In fact, mulling over that sentence, I was reminded of my first talk with Tezuka. It had been ages ago, when she had first joined the art club. Aside from her introduction, in which she stated her name and, for unknown reason, her disability, I had never heard her speak. She just showed up every time, sat down and began painting. Unlike most students, she had not joined the club to meet new people, or even hang out with the people she did know. Other students had tried reaching out to her, but most got fairly exasperated by it and soon reverted to working alone or finding someone else to work with. She never once painted the subject I proposed in all those meetings. Of course, it was not mandatory to do so, but every other student ran out of ideas at some point, or found the subject interesting enough to dabble in. Not Tezuka. If she was not interested, or out of ideas, she just sat in the classroom, staring outside, until something came up or until the club meeting was over.
When we first spoke, she was the one to initiate it, to my great amazement. After a club meeting, during which she had spent half the time looking outside and the other half starting up a new painting, she approached me as the last student in the room and asked me one single question.
'So, why is this what you do?'
I looked at her and blinked a couple of times before realizing that, yes, this was Tezuka speaking and, even more surprisingly, she looked like she was expecting an answer. Still, I did not expect the question, much less understand it. I assumed she meant the art club itself, and why I was the one supervising it.
'Because I want to motivate young people like you to express yourself differently. To use art as a medium between who you are, and who you want other people to see you be like.'
This caused her to look troubled for a moment.
'But if art is who I am, and I am who I am, is seeing my art not enough for people to see me? Or do they need to see my art to even see me? But then, how do people who don't paint get seen?'
'It's not about seeing, or being seen. To look at a painting is to see a piece of the painter's soul engraved onto the canvas. And if people can see that, then they see the real person behind the painting. Tell me... Tezuka, was it? When you paint, don't you put more of yourself into those paintings than others see in them?'
'I don't think I put anything in my paintings that others cannot see. If I did, then they wouldn't get the same painting as I saw, and I'm pretty sure that my eyes still work the same as everyone else's.'
'Well, maybe it will come to you later. That is why I supervise this art club, anyway. To see you young people grow into artists that portray themselves to the world, one painting at a time.'
 
After that, I never got much more out of Tezuka. Occasionally, she would ask me something, but my answers never seemed to satisfy. Or perhaps they did, but it never showed. Somehow, I always felt as though I missed out on something during that first conversation, as though the key to understanding Tezuka was in establishing a basis that I had slipped off from during that one conversation.
To be totally honest, however, I never needed to speak to Tezuka more than that one time. After seeing her first few paintings, I realized there was a certain truth to her answers back then. She did not bare her soul in these paintings, at least not in the way that I had seen others do it before. She seemed utterly devoted to making paintings that could be seen, and seen as perfectly by any other as by herself. Perhaps, somewhere behind those layers of paint, beyond that coated piece of canvas, there was a cry of Tezuka, reaching out beyond it, but eternally silenced by the need to be seen more than to be heard. It was as though she was busy more with existing than she was with portraying. As though she was scared of fading away if others failed to notice her.
A fear, perhaps, not too ungrounded. After all, did I not know exactly what happened to those who we fail to notice?
I remember her, because she reminds me too much.
 
Several weeks passed by. They went by without notice from me or the school, or the world at large, as it seemed. Life droned on, the art club set up every week, and nothing really changed. And so, it was that I once again found myself late for the art club, hurrying to the classroom to apologize to the students and get a chance to view Tezuka's work once more.
'Sorry for being late, students, I was held up by some important business.' I spoke to the club, as I shut the door behind me and turned around. A new face pried among their ranks. I recognized him vaguely, although it took me some time to figure out where exactly I had met the young man.
'I see we have a new face! Please, introduce yourself, young man!'
'My name is Hisao Nakai. I'm joining the art club from this week on.'
'Wonderful, wonderful!' I exclaimed and applauded, with some students meekly following my example.
Now I remember him. The young man who was with Tezuka outside, watching her paint the mural for the upcoming festival. Apparently, he'd gotten into some sort of slump and was dragged along to help preparations. And he'd ended up with Tezuka, of all people.
I went along with my usual speeches of the day, and sparked up a bit of discussion on art with the new student. Before I knew it, however, everyone was set up to work with one another on making a portrait of the other student.
Surveying the classroom, I half expected Tezuka to sit back at her easel, finishing her latest work. Instead, my eyes lingered on her empty stool for a while before turning to the window where she was standing, apparently modeling, for the Nakai boy. For several minutes, I stood still and watched as the boy made some rough sketches, attempting to portray Tezuka. Moving a bit closer, I could see that he had quite a lot of work to do in that regard, but I disregarded that criticism and instead complimented Tezuka on her stance.
Turning away from the pair, a sudden quote sprang to my mind. I believe it had been said by Mutou, the science teacher, and its relevance eluded me for several seconds.
"When we can no longer observe something directly, we instead focus on how it interacts with other forces to determine its qualities."
 
Seeing Nakai and Tezuka together lifted my spirits for the next few weeks. Not just the way they interacted, but the way Nakai seemed to improve Tezuka by miles. She finished her latest work in a record pace, and the last additions to the painting were new and exciting, bringing to her work a kind of evolution I normally would expect to see in painters over years, possibly decades. The Nakai kid himself was not an artist, that much was sure. He knew the basics, but his work lacked definition and drive, and his mediocre skill at all forms of painting aside from watercolors seemed to limit his motivation to really put himself to work. Still, I was happy to see him around to influence Tezuka.
Especially since, after a lot of hard work, I finally managed to pull the right strings to get some of Tezuka's work exhibited. I proposed this to her after an art club meeting, which seemed to unnerve her greatly. However, the Nakai boy proved to be invaluable once more by saying just the right thing to get her to think about. The way he appealed to her reminded me of a time, long ago, when such similar words were spoken.
Not eager to display what you are unsure of, unable to say what you want on the matter, but always willing to follow on the advice of a close friend.
Not only did she remind me of her, she now relived a fraction of her past...
 
I find myself more and more locked within my memories now. I fear, at times, for repetition of the past, knowing that such mistakes are easily made. But this is not like then, is it? I am here now, and no one is more aware of what the dangers are than me. Still, when the cycle repeats itself, you hope to have some influence on it this time around.
Seeing your past in someone can be devastating. Seeing your mistakes coming back can bring a man to the edge of madness, where the tiniest slip can mean a fall from which you never recover.
Over the next weeks, Tezuka locked herself in. Just as she did.
She allowed no visitors, aside from one. Just as she had done.
She barely ate, as I gathered from the gallery owner. Exactly as she refused to do.
On one night, I found myself in the classroom of the art club, surrounded by Tezuka's works. I had to pick the right ones. I had to select the paintings that would be placed in the exhibit. Merely looking at them filled me with a mixture of fear and wonder. Fear, because I knew where this road could lead, and what it would mean to Tezuka, not to mention to me, if it did go wrong. And wonder, because for all the repetition of the past, Tezuka had come further than she ever had, and was so close now, to achieving that lifelong goal, that driving ambition that had once destroyed one held so dear to me.
Every painting took on a different form to me. Crushing loneliness in one; a cry for companionship, eternally lost on those who shared a different view. In another, overbearing joy, a gathering of bliss and joy. In yet another, submissive admission of defeat; the final moments of existence, ended so abruptly, so soon...
Surrounded by nothing but memories of my mistakes, I cried in deserted silence and loneliness, all the while dreading what was yet to come.
 
Yamaku was silent. Most of the students were headed home already, the end of their school year having been celebrated here, and their teary goodbyes having been said among their classmates.
However, throughout the empty halls, there echoed a furious stepping sound. I paced along the halls, my mind filled with anger, sadness and relief, all fighting for a place amongst the hierarchy of chaos that I had become.
Somewhere along the way, I had met Nakai. He had no idea where Tezuka had gone off to, either. I asked him to send her along to me if he ever found her.
It had been so close! It had almost been perfect! There had been some big names walking around that gallery, and they had shown such great interest in Tezuka's work! And even Tezuka seemed okay with it. Sure, she had been under a great deal of stress, and she looked very pent-up standing in that gallery, but that was to be expected of an artist facing their first exhibition. But when they wanted to talk to her, she... she just... she...
I sat back at my desk, hearing the chair creak underneath my weight as I sank into it. It had been so close to perfect. So very close to being that moment she had always wanted, to have people look at her work and wonder in delight. To bare herself to more than one person at last, and to finally have a place to showcase her wonderful self to the world. Our dream of being artists, of traveling the world together, showing off her wonders to people all around the world, to being together for so long, after having been together for so long.
But it had been cut short. Once again, the pressure had been too much. As I saw Tezuka fall to her knees, so my mind conjured her image, falling to her knees, her hands covering her eyes, her tears seeping through. And when Tezuka had turned around and got out of that gallery, so too did I see her turn around and vanish, never to be seen again, doomed to forever become a memory in my mind.
 
I realized that I was staring at my desk. Tearing my eyes away from it, and holding myself back, I looked upwards into the face of Tezuka.
I shouldn't have. I should have let her come back later, after I had dealt with my memories. After I had given this a place in my mind to rest, and after I told myself that this was for the better. But I did not. My emotions got the better of me, and in a fit of rage I unleashed it all on Tezuka.
As I yelled at her, I saw her form shift before me, away from that armless young student I always saw in art club, and into a form of a woman I had not seen for a long, long time, except in memories and photographs. But this did nothing to help my anger.
'We waited so long for this! This was what we always wanted, remember?! And so what if a bit of pressure comes your way?! Didn't you say you wanted to finally change!? To do something with this amazing gift of yours, to share it with more people!?'
Every emotion I had bottled up, every little thing I had felt after I had first taken a look at Tezuka's paintings, every word I had always wanted to say, but never dared, because who would speak ill of the dead... It all came out now, all aimed at the wrong person, all said in the wrong tone, the wrong time, the wrong place.
After I had nothing more to say, and before I had a chance to even think about what I had said, I got up and rushed out of the room. I left Yamaku immediately, not even paying attention to where I was going. It was not until I found myself in front of a very large gate that I finally realized where my body had been taking me: the same place that had haunted my mind for months now.
 
Slowly, I stumbled over towards the plot of grass and stone. The sun was setting, and the plants and insects were glazed over with a beautiful golden glow. Even the cold, cracked stone had been given a warm radiance by the sun's beams. I fell to my knees before it, and wiped aside some vegetation that had overgrown the tombstone. Underneath it, the dark inscription became legible, bathed in the sun's light.
 
-HELEN NOMIYA-
LOVING WIFE AND FATED ARIST
~MAY YOU NEVER BE FORGOTTEN~
 
I hunched over the cold stone and sobbed, until it became too dark to stay.
She had always been so much like her.
But now, for once, for one tiny fraction of a moment of time, I am happy that she is not.