Never Seen Anything Quite Like You Too (A The Script Fan-fiction)

23) The Artists' Convention

Never Seen Anything Quite Like You Too.

23) The Artists' Convention.

'Holy shit'

Were the words that I were thinking and the words that Glen whispered when we walked into the hall. It was like the grand hall at Hogwarts but without the long tables. Each wall had five paintings on it. Around each of the painting was a lengthy description. I walked up to one of the paintings and saw that there were several laminated sheets of paper. One was about the artist themselves. Another was about the intentions of the artist and the final sheet was all about the colours, blending and the painting quality as a whole.

I scanned the walls and instantly found my own painting. It definitely stood out that's for sure. My painting was the only landscape painting here. The rest were portraits or abstract shapes made to look like a person.

Glen took my hand in his and I turned to face him. He was beaming around the whole room. I looked down at the polished laminate floor and could see our reflections, although slightly distorted, fairly clearly. Glen's smile reflected back up at me and hit my lips forcing them up into a smile as well.

"Right come on Siena. Lets check out what people have said about your painting then, shall we?" Glen asked rhetorically. I smiled up at him and nodded. He guided me over to the painting which I had spent over a week on and we both studied it.

"You know the reds and oranges you have used in the autumn part really blend in well with the black you have used for the trees," Glen said knowledgeably.

I laughed. I couldn't do anything more but laugh. Here was Glen someone who cannot paint to save his life and he was talking to me about colours, blending and contrast of sharp colours. It's truly laughable when you think of it.

"What? Why are you laughing?" Glen asked.

"You,"

"What about me?"

"Acting like you know what you're saying,"

Glen leant forward and whispered.

'Shall I let you in on a secret?'

"Go on then,"

He paused before saying.

'I don't know what I'm saying not really. All I know is that I like the colours you used in the autumn part.'

I chuckled once more.

"At least you admitted it," I said.

I leant forward to read about the artist's intentions on my painting.

'For this painting it is a little unclear what the artist's intentions were. It was as if she didn't even know but found herself painting what her heart wanted her to paint. The light colours used in the Spring part of the painting could suggest how she supports the idea of new life and a new start for one and all. In the Summer part of the painting the bright colours represents the heat of a summers day. Seeing as this artist was born in July we could say that this heat has sexual connotations. In autumn the rusty colours she has used could represent how things are slowly dying out for her. How maybe things turn a little fiery. The artist once got suspended from school in an autumn month which could represent how feisty and fiery she felt during those months. Finally during the winter months this represents how dead the world is around her and how cold it is. The artist had a miscarriage during a winter month several years ago and so the stillness of the world and how dead this part of the picture seems to be could represent how unfortunate she was to have to go through such a trauma. This could also represent how cold the artist is as a person perhaps during those months.'

"Who wrote this shit? I feel like I'm in an English Literature class. If I paint the curtains blue its not because I'm sad it's because I wanted the curtains to be fucking blue!" I ranted.

"How did they get that information?" Glen asked.

"My Dad no doubt. Probably his small slice of revenge," I grumbled.

"Excuse me. Siena Seeger?" A male voice asked.

"So that's your last name?" Glen whispered.

"Not now," I whispered back.

I slowly turned. This gave me the time to compose a smile onto my face.

"Hello sir," I greeted.

"Hello Miss Seeger and hello to Mr Power too. I've heard a bit about your painting style through Mr Power you know. Sent me and email with a portfolio of your works. The Lighthouse. Humans and Nature. A Dog Howls. This is why we accepted you in. You have to be extremely good to get in to here. So do thank your accomplice," the man said.

"I have already done that. Don't you worry," I said.

"Well can I say what an amazingly deep painting this is. You have captured the feeling of new life in spring. Heat in summer. Burning in autumn and stillness in winter. An amazing achievement," he said.

I smiled that's all I could do for I'm not used to compliments like that. Glen smiled warmly down at me. 'Thanks' was what I muttered. I'd be no good in the limelight. I shy away from compliments. It's like I need them but I can't accept them.

"Do take a look at the other paintings," the man said and walked away.

"No good with compliments are you?" Glen noted.

I sighed.

"Do you notice everything?"

"Uh. Round about yes,"

"Come on let's have a look at the other paintings," I said. He took my hand once more and guided me around the paintings.

The paintings were all of slender ladies. Some naked. Others in skin tight dresses. It made me look down at myself and think what a fool I looked like. I'm wearing a kiddies dress compared to the luxurious dresses those ladies in the painting are wearing. In fact, it's not just the painted ladies. All around me the women and men looked like they had stepped out of a painting themselves. Or like they were sculpted to perfection. Not a single flick of paint out of place. No bumps of clay out of place and no wires coming out of one's head. I looked down at myself my complexion was a mix match of all of the people before me. A horrid blend. For once I'm glad that I'm not wearing a skin right dress; i don't want the other people in this room to see all my lumps and bumps of clay sticking out of me and as for my hair. As Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 said: 'if her hair be wires then black wires grow on her head'. My cheeks are nothing like roses and my eyes 'are nothing like the sun' as Shakespeare once said about his mistress.

All throughout the night I got congratulations on my painting and how I should aim to become one of the great artists of modern history.

None of that matters anymore. Not to me. I now have new aims and new goals. To get control.

A/N: so what will Siena do to get control and I am sorry but a blatant foreshadow coming right from the author's fingertips. Things are going downhill from here. You have been warned. Please remember that this fan fiction is up for the wattys 2014 so please VOTE VOTE VOTE.