#marcus.

The Short & Stout brewery had soon become a favored space of Inge, who liked a place where she could sip a fair few beers but didn’t like coming across her students while doing so. It was sweet, anyway, to come here after a walk in the woods. She’d collected a fair few bits and bobs, to file away in her collection of naturalistic bits and bobs — it would be of use in a future piece, one that only existed in her mind for now.

With a Pepper Up Stout in her hands, hiking boots still on her feet, she moved through the brewery before letting her gaze fall on a piece of art above a little nook. There was already someone sitting there, but Ingeborg had never let that stop her. She looked at the painting for a moment. Mixed media, that she liked. “That must be new,” she said, pointing at it with her glass. A small bit of beer fell on the table. “Oops! Sorry, let me get that —” Placing her glass down and sliding in the boot, her eyes trailed to the painting once more before she got a tissue to wipe the liquid up. 

She balled the spoiled paper up and pushed it to the side of the table. “I just need a closer look to that piece of work, if that’s okay. If you mind the company, just say so.” Inge looked up again. “What do you think of it?” 

Despite his more affluent upbringing, Marcus didn’t really know much about fine art. He and his father were much more focused on studying sports and war history, and didn’t take a lot of time to appreciate much else. Still his mother loved it, and he now found himself regretting not studying a subject that he could have connected with his mother on. As he leaned back in his chair and sipped on his drink, it was the same one he had been sipping on for the past 40 minutes, he studied the painting above where he sat and tried to understand where people found the deeper beauty. 

It doesn’t even look like anything, it’s like somebody just slapped a bunch of colors on a canvas and called it a day. I could do that, Marcus thought to himself. His thoughts were soon interrupted, however, as he heard a woman’s voice behind him talking about the piece. He saw the woman spill a small amount of her drink on the table, some of it splashing onto his arm. 

The woman then decided to sit down right next to him, which wasn’t unwelcome. He definitely appreciated the company. However, she soon asked him what his thoughts on the piece of art were, and she definitely seemed to appreciate it more than he did. Now, he could have had an honest conversation and tell her it just looked like random globs of paint, but didn’t think that would get him far. Besides, having an intellectual conversation about the piece might just teach him a thing or two. 

Marcus swirled his drink thoughtfully before saying “I find their color choice and line work to be… pedestrian.” He did his best to emulate his mother and her rich friends when they went on their art tours. “How about you?” 

It would be a source of shame for Inge, if her art ever came to hang in a place like this. Not that there was anything wrong with the bar itself, but there was something about your pieces being bought just to be looked at by people intending to get drunk. No, she preferred to sell to more fine dining places, if she had to. Besides, one of her pieces would look absolutely out of place here.

Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy some of the art that arrived in more mundane places. And this was a nice piece, truly. Abstract, but clever in a way. Even from where she sat she could see the different techniques, not just the acrylic paint but the other materials used. Was that some rotan? Her eyes narrowed. It had potential, Inge thought. Like a bored housewife had made it who could do so much more — but maybe she was just projecting now.

“Pedestrian?” Her gaze redirected to the stranger and she took a large sip of her drink, mulling over that assessment. “Gotta politely disagree with you there. It’s easy to glance at, sure, not the most complicated — but it’s hardly pedestrian. Accessible art is great, you know? This is abstract in a way where people can get into it. Plenty of ways to interpret, and, if you ask me, excellent use of color.”

Swing and a miss Marcus thought to himself. At least he gave it a try. Maybe he hadn’t made a complete ass of himself? Judging by her reaction it didn’t seem like a completely uninformed take, just one that she disagreed with. He figured it shouldn’t be hard to recover. Still, she definitely seemed to know what she was talking about. 

“Oh of course. It’s very… colorful. I like how the brush strokes really cover the canvas. I suppose you’re right, accessibility is always a good thing, right?” Marcus looked more closely at the piece. The colors definitely seemed to represent something but what? Was there meant to be a clear answer? Was that the point, that there was no point? Or that there were multiple points?

Marcus didn’t really know how to interpret the piece. Not wanting to put his foot in his mouth again, he asked “and what’s your interpretation of it?”

The best thing about art was its subjectivity. There was no such thing as bad art (though there was such a thing as bad artists, Inge thought) at the end of the day, even if a person might dislike a piece greatly. Some of her work had been met with lukewarm reviews, but there had always been at least one person who had gotten enjoyment out of it. Disagreeing with a stranger on a piece of art in a bar was fun.

She gave a nod of the head, “Certainly. And that’s not to say that there is art out there that’s meant for more intermediary or expert art observers, but still! A Rothko here would be out of place.” 

He asked for her opinion and her gaze moved from the canvas to him. “I see a mother and her daughter, perhaps faintly. It’s such an easy concept to interpret in a multitude of ways, you know? But there, the larger and then —” Her finger moved to another blob of paint, “The smaller. The rest could be whatever. I’m not sure yet.” Inge looked at him. She had no idea what the artist’s intention had been and didn’t care for now. “What about you?” 

Marcus, predictably, had no idea what a Rothko was. An artist? Some sort of alien species? Then she gave her own interpretation. A mother and her child. While he could certainly kind of see what she was talking about after pointing out the different sized blots of paint, it seemed like a stretch. Still, the woman next to him certainly seemed to derive more meaning from the piece than he did. And he had to admit, seeing it from her perspective definitely allowed him to actually make some sense of the piece. 

Figuring he couldn’t steal her answer, he decided to come up with an interpretation on the spot. He always considered himself a more literal person, so interpretation of abstract thought and design weren’t exactly his forte. He swore they should use these pieces to replace Rorschach tests, because of all of the different answers people could give you. He analyzed the piece very carefully, looking for something. 

He suddenly remembered tagging along with his mother to art galas when he was a young boy, trying to distract himself as she talked to her snobbish friends about one technique or another. Still, he did remember what was discussed, and could use a thing or two from those discussions. It also helped that he took an art appreciation class in high school, which could give him a few more tools to interpret with. He got a C in that class, but still, good enough.

“The different sized blots of ink could also represent growth. One person, but at different points of their life. The interesting thing to try to figure out is, which way are they growing? Positively or negatively? The light colors towards the top of the canvas can represent happiness, but is the subject growing towards or away from the light?” 

Once he started, he just sort of kept going. He had decided on an interpretation and his brain just sort of ran with it the rest of the way. And the best part was he didn’t pull any of it out of his ass, he was speaking genuinely about it. He was impressed with himself, and he turned to face the woman next to him hoping that he had impressed her as well.

Interpreting art was something Inge could do for an incredible amount of time. Sometimes she’d use the astral plane to her advantage, making her way to galleries in the larger cities of the continent to stare at the art and make them fit her own vision. There was no error to be had with interpretation. Sure, the academic world would say there was such a thing, but she found it all rather elitist. Art was for the viewer. 

And even when people spoke complete bullshit, it was still somewhat thought through. That was why it nice that there was no plate next to this artwork: there was no title to go off, no artist’s name to Google for context. Here it was, this singular piece. Not the best she’d ever seen, but intriguing. Of course Inge saw a mother and a child, because she saw mothers with children everywhere except in the mirror. In the mirror was only the mother, childless.

Without the other knowing it or her, she’d given him a piece of her soul by offering his interpretation. So she could only hope the answer he’d give her was as truthful as hers had been. “Interesting, I like that. The lightness could apply on my interpretation too, if you don’t mind. Maybe the child is moving forward, further than the parent.” 

Inge took a long sip of her drink after that statement. “Whether it’s growing towards it or not is all up to you,” she said. Art was also freedom. Maybe she’d paint again, when coming home. “Or maybe it’s teaching us that there is no use in putting value on growth. All growth can be good and bad? Hm. Makes you think.”

He almost couldn’t believe it. Here was Marcus having an intellectual conversation with a complete stranger over what certain flecks of paint on a canvas meant. Although he had to admit that he found himself to be very engaged in the conversation. Maybe he had an interest in this sort of thing after all. His interpretation really just sort of blurted out, he barely even thought of the words before he spoke them. Perhaps it was him projecting his own experiences and emotions onto what he saw on the canvas. He figured that probably lent credence to his suggestion of using modern art as Rorschach tests.  

He thought of her interpretation of the child moving beyond the parent, and thought of his own mother and father. He was finally able to get in contact with them, assured by William that the brass presumed him to be dead and were no longer making efforts to find him. Not that Marcus trusted what he had to say, but figured he wouldn’t risk coming to Marcus and boldly making his presence known if he felt there was a risk he’d get caught up in some military manhunt. They were relieved to have the confirmation that he was alive and well, but never really had their doubts. 

“My son drowning at sea?”, his mother said. “Honestly I had to fight to keep a sad expression on my face when they came to our door to say that.”

“What were you thinking?! I thought we told you not to be so careless, that pelt is your lifeline! And you let somebody steal it?” His father was not quite as warm about the situation. 

They expressed sympathy for his situation and relief that he was, relatively speaking, okay. He missed home, and once again he saw himself projecting himself onto the canvas. The child grows beyond the parent. Here he was, brave new world. Uncharted waters. Still unsure, is this growth more good than it is bad? Or is it an even split?  

He looked at the woman next to him again. 

“I definitely know what you mean. Life isn’t a perfect black and white. It’s a collection of grays. Who’s to say the light is even a good thing?”

She kept thinking about the mother and child herself, thinking of little Vera in her then-mortal arms. Inge’s world had been so limited back then, in that house she shared with Hendrik — her center of the universe had been nothing but that bundle of joy. And she had loved her, deeply, and she had worried for her, deeply.

Vera had come from her (and Hendrik, but he mattered so little to her, that brutish and horrible man) and had made a life on this world that was her own. Inge knew she hadn’t been the best mother, that there had been a distance forced between herself and her daughter because of her own selfishness, because of her transformation into something more-than-human. Like the shapes, they stopped standing together at some point. Vera had left and Inge had not begged her to stay, and somehow it had made things better between them.

Because when Vera had gone her own way in the world, attending university and bursting with ambition. From a distance, her daughter had been so admirable and beautiful. From a distance, Inge could at least see that Vera would have a better time than she had in her twenties, even if she would one day outgrow her.

Perhaps that’s what the stranger was getting at. Maybe Inge was the smaller shape, infinitely young whereas her daughter’s body grew older than her own ever got to be. Sometimes, the child outgrew the mother. 

She downed her drink, raised a hand to order another round, “You want one, too?” She didn’t often get filled with remorse or grief, but it hit her now. Inge reshifted her focus on the words the other had spoken, nodding. “We need both. That’s the truth in art as well as life. No use in things being good or light when there’s no bad or darkness.” She extended her hand, “I enjoyed this. My name is Inge.”

Marcus could see the woman in front of him was deep in thought. Maybe this was starting to take on a personal meaning for her too, just as it had for Marcus. Maybe she was thinking of her own parents, and her relationship with them. He hoped that that relationship wasn’t strained in any way. 

“Yes please, I’d love another round.” Usually Marcus didn’t drink much when he went out, but tonight he decided to have a few more than usual. 

He shook the woman’s hand, “Marcus” he replied back. “Very nice to meet you, I’m definitely enjoying this conversation too. It’s crazy what you can take away from just some shapes on a canvas. I think I might’ve misjudged it a little at first.”

He found himself curious about the woman next to him. He knew what his personal connection to the piece was, but what was hers? 

“So, what’s your story, Inge?”

After ordering both of them another round, she returned her focus to the stranger in front of her. His face soon gained a name and she smiled. “Marcus. Nice to meet you.” Funny, that he admitted that he’d misjudged the painting. Inge was glad to have pushed his mind a little, and found herself attributing it all completely to herself.

Her fingers splayed on the table, awaiting another drink and nodding. “Exactly! People are so quick to disregard abstract art, and though there can certainly be pretty shit pieces out there, it does challenge you more to look further than a renaissance painting. Which are interesting to analyze too, but leave less room for personal interpretation, hm?” 

He asked for her story and she wondered what he wished to know. Of course, there was no chance of her actually telling a stranger of her past – delving in the twisted youth in a post-war country, admitting that she was actually nearly eighty rather than a sprightly thirty-something – but still. “My story, hm? Tonight, I’m just here for a drink. Besides that … I teach art, I make art and I’m a bit of a traveler. What about you?”

Ah, so that would explain how she knew so much about art and interpretation. She was a teacher after all, she must have studied the subject extensively. Suddenly Marcus felt much less…uncultured. 

“I’d love to see your work some time. I’m a bit of a traveler myself, kinda have to be when you’re in the Navy. I’ve been all over but never really got to enjoy many of the places I’ve stopped at. I’ll tell you the Persian Gulf is beautiful, and probably a lot nicer when people aren’t trying to drop bombs on top of you.” He chuckled a bit, trying to throw some humor into a confession he admitted was pretty dark. 

He couldn’t help but notice that there was still a bit of mystery. For tonight, just here for a drink. I guess he could say the same for himself. He decided not to press his new acquaintance for any further details. He had learned that if somebody doesn’t talk about something readily, it’s for good reason. 

“Nowadays, I do maintenance at the lighthouse, keep an eye out for any stranded ships or drowning swimmers. Figure I should put my good swimming ability to good use.”

“Who knows, maybe you will be able to soon. There’s always two pieces of mine on the campus, though,” she said, not saying out loud that she was in talks with MuertArte, as it would certainly count as jinxing it if she were to say she was in talks with them. Inge smiled, still, “I’m more of a sculptor myself, though. Less abstract, too.”

Ah, the navy. A little disappointing, she thought, and not just because the navy tended to work on the sea which Inge despised due to its high salt levels. “Ah, I tend to avoid locations where people drop bombs on me personally. Not joining the navy has been very useful in that goal thus far.” She chuckled. 

When she was about to ask if he was in the navy now – and if so, why the hell he was in Wicked’s Rest – he revealed himself to work at the lighthouse. “Ah, so no more bombs, hm? Just all the other weird stuff this town has to offer.” 

She took a long sip of her drink. “Are you not too high up to rescue any drowning swimmers, though? What happens when you’re up there and someone starts screaming for help? Do you run down all those stairs? Or … slide like a fireman?”

Marcus was pleased the woman next to him joked back with him. He always used humor to make light of his experiences at war, and some people found that to be in poor taste. It always felt like they were trying to be offended on his behalf even though he was the one who made the joke in the first place. 

“Not joining in the first place is good advice, where were you 12 years ago?” Marcus said, gesturing towards Inge with his glass. 

She had a point about his ability to rescue drowning swimmers. A normal person wouldn’t be able to dive from those heights and swim efficiently enough to rescue someone drowning. It would be far more likely that they’d end up drowning along with the victim.

“We had a pretty firm ‘no man left behind’ policy on my ship.” Except for when it came to his own overboard occurrence of course, although their lack of investigation was to his benefit. “If somebody went overboard, every man on that ship was trained to dive down from a great height safely and retrieve their comrade from the water. A lot of the coastline around Wicked’s Rest is much less forgiving than the smooth surface of a ship, but I make do. I actually went to the state finals in high school for high diving!” Surprisingly, he hadn’t won. He made it to the final round but his father encouraged him to tone things down a little so as not to appear too good. As a result, he took home second place, which he was still pleased with, but always had a hint of bitterness over not getting to enjoy his championship. 

“Do you get many students?” he asked her, changing the subject

Where was she twelve years ago? Drowning her sorrows in other people’s nightmares. Sick with grief in Europe. Wishing she was human for the first time in decades just so she could sleep for a while, close her eyes and drift off. But that was hardly a suitable answer. To explain that she’d had an adult daughter who had died then — well, it was a little too much baring of the soul. Revealing, too. Inge didn’t look like someone who’d had a child in her thirties.

“Italy. I was an artist-in-residence in the north, it was quite lovely.” Not an entire lie. She’d been going by a different name then, her art had been ugly in its rage. Grief bended and collapsed time, sure, but so did immortality. Inge took a long sip from her drink. Fuck this question. “A lot colder than you might expect.” 

She was glad he went on about diving from large heights, the distraction it offered from her own past (which was often romanticized and thought of highly, with some exception like now). “Ah, sure — but a lighthouse, is that not much higher than the largest diving board? I’m not sure, I haven’t gone swimming in quite some time.” She missed swimming in the sea. The few memories she had of the ocean as a mortal (going to the coast with Hendrik and Vera for a week during summer, getting sunburned and salty) were vague, and yet she longed. Shit, she was getting nostalgic. “That’s cool, though. What’s the highest you’ve ever dived from?”

Inge nodded. “A fair few. I don’t just teach sculpting, and a lot of them like to take an art class even if it’s not their major. Seems we all need some art, hm? What'd you go to college for?”

Marcus wasn’t really expecting her to answer where she was 12 years ago, he meant the question rhetorically. Still, traveling around northern Italy couldn’t have been easy, even with all of the charm that came along with it. 

“Well, if you’re going to practice your artistic skills, I’m sure the home of the renaissance is the best place to be!” He had never toured over there personally, he never had a reason to. But he had been along the mediterranean once and could agree that the view was breathtaking. 

“You can dive from surprisingly high with the right technique. You can see videos online of people jumping off of high rocky cliffs taller than the one the lighthouses sit on, you just have to land properly. Also, I do climb down a bit to the ground before jumping, that cuts down on height a lot.  I’d say the highest would be from a cliff face back home, also one that was home to a lighthouse. That must have been 150 feet up. I ended up so deep underwater, I thought for sure I’d drown.” Marcus added, trying to come across as if he actually could drown. 

“I started college going for my BA in History, but ended up with a DO instead. Meaning, I dropped out.” Marcus clarified awkwardly. It was a sore spot for him, as his parents wanted the college route to work for him. He could still feel the sting of their disappointment when he told them. They were afraid when he chose to join the navy instead, fearing for his life and the secrecy of his own identity as well as that of his family. 

“Ah well,” Marcus said after a pause. “College isn’t for everybody, right? I still did okay for myself. It sounds like we both did.” And with that Marcus tilted his glass towards Inge’s, signaling an impromptu toast to both of their relative success.

Something, unbeknownst to her, had gotten lost in translation. Inge didn’t think herself prone to such things, however, and thus she didn’t think further than to consider the other’s question strange and forward. That it caused her to do some bitter reflection was on him, too, she found.

“Certainly, though I’m not fully sure if it’s the most inspiring place I’ve ever been,” she said, and it was said a little smugly. Being well-traveled was something Inge was glad for, even proud of. Italy had been where one of her favorite exhibitions had been, when her work had represented Switzerland. That had been twenty years ago, though, when life had been different. It was pre-Vera, rather than post, which was how all of life was separated. Everything was pre- or post a death. Her own, Sanne’s, Vera’s. They were the pillars of her existence.

She nodded at the explanation, “Sure, but isn’t there rocks under a lighthouse, right? Isn’t there a large chance you fall onto those rather than into the waves?” It would be thrilling to dive from such a high place, Inge thought. Maybe she should seek more exhilaration through human adrenaline-chasing ways. Not by jumping into the ocean, though. “ A hundred and fifty feet, holy Jesus!”  She let out a laugh. “That’s impressive. Must’ve taken a while to come back up.” 

He was right, of course: college wasn’t for everybody. Inge found the confines of academia stifling at times, even as a professor. She wasn’t intending to return to teaching when she’d inevitably ditch this town and find something else to do. “ It sure isn’t. We rely on those pieces of paper too much.”  She had learned most of her skills through other means, anyway, even if going to university back in the day had been freeing. She lifted her glass, tilted it towards him, “It seems we did. Cheers to that.” 

Marcus had grown to enjoy the conversation, but felt the night was getting late. 

“I agree. Some papers with our names on them and some fancy titles or letters next to our name don’t define our worth.”

He found the statement a bit hypocritical of him to say. After all, isn’t a soldier’s value tied to badges and ranks? Was the hierarchy there any different than in the drudgery of academia? Maybe they had experience in more similar fronts than he had initially thought. The top brass of the military could share many similarities to a university’s administration or board. 

Marcus raised his glass and met his new friend’s toast. 

“Cheers. To happiness, success, and new friends. Interesting how a piece can get people talking and bring them together, isn’t it? I guess that’s part of the beauty.”

She nodded in agreement, “Exactly,” she said, placing her glass back on the table. “Art is a great equalizer, even if people want to act all high and mighty about it.” Inge thought about her current job and how annoyingly elitist academia could be. She’d trade it for something else soon enough.

She took a long sip from her drink, finishing the glass and letting the empty vessel rest against the wood of the table. “It was nice to meet you …” She waited to receive his name, and then extended her hand to make the introduction official. “I’m Inge.”