Error Handling (MATCHED BY CUPID #2) by Erin Lucy EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Erin Lucy
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.7 MB
- Price: Free
Sarah
I love the color brown.
I love it in the bark on the young oak just outside the window, in the
chestnut color of my hair, in a chocolate lab’s short, rough coat. I like the
rich brown of dark chocolate and the creamy brown of lattes from Joe and
Go. I like brown eyes and brown skin and brown summer tans and brown
leather sandals that I can easily kick off into the sand to run barefoot
through the waves. Brown is not bad per se.
Unless it’s unintentional.
I glare at my palette. It’s dotted with globs of Winsor and Newton oil
paints in various colors—Cadmium Red, Yellow Ochre, Phthalo Blue,
Veridian, along with other hues I mixed myself. All afternoon, I’ve been
applying them to my canvas in chunky, layered strokes that crash onto my
canvas like the waves on Folly Beach. Unfortunately, my paintings rarely
look as beautiful as a Charleston beach. Today is no exception.
I take a few steps back, cross my arms, and look at the mess I’ve made on
my stretched canvas. My thoughts are as muddy as the colors, panic
bleeding into desperation, oozing into disbelief.
How did I end up here, a twenty-eight-year-old college senior trying to
earn a BFA in Painting at College of Charleston when I have no artistic
talent, not even in my pinky finger? The only skill I’m adept at is mixing
various shades of brown: diarrhea brown, baby poop brown, puke brown.
I let out a long, guttural groan.
Luna leans over and peeks at me from behind her oversized canvas. She
regards me with one eyebrow raised. “Is something wrong?”
Luna Cochran is nothing like me. She’s blonde, tall, freckled, talented—a
magician with oil paint, able to create hyperrealistic landscapes and faces.
She runs a bustling portrait business on the side, painting the likenesses of
men and women from all over the globe. Her business funds her college
degree and pays the rent on her downtown apartment.
“Yes, something is wrong,” I say through pinched lips. “And every time I
try to make it right, I end up inventing another shade of brown.”
I squint at the canvas—at the knobby outgrowth of bark that looks like a
dirty corn on the bottom of my Grandma Wilkins’ foot (God rest her soul).
Why do oil paints have to be so unforgiving?
I wanted to use acrylics for my senior exhibit, but Professor Smythe
insisted I “stretch” myself. Well, this is what stretching looks like: a
preschooler’s finger painting. I’d do just as well with my fingers.
I vacuum a lungful of air and dive for my painting, arms out-stretched,
fingers splayed. The waves of paint are cool against my fingertips, and they
mix readily as I swipe and swirl my hands up and down the lightly textured
canvas.
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