I heard a knock on my door and when I opened it, my uncle Fëamíril was behind it since he had finally arrived from Lothlórien. We has down for a cup of tea and to talk about a thing or few. He asked me why I hadn’t painted for such a long time, but the reason it something that I’m not willing to openly admit yet. ”I need more pratise,” I answered. ”No artist is truly ever finished and perfect.” It was vague, but it was also true and something that I believed in, also for myself. Claiming the opposite would be delusional, and do more harm than good.
He nodded and said: ”Just don’t be so self critical that it’ll stop you from working at all.” We jumped from one subject to another until he spoke about days in Valinor. ”You must have seen Varda in her regular form,” I said. ”She is often sung about, but she remains a mystery to me, one born in hither lands.”
He went silent for a moment. ”She is indeed beautiful, and pale with a snowy white hair and a living light glowing from within. She can change her form of course, but the other one I had seen was like a crystal filled with a bright light without casting a shadow. That’s when the power of light within her body was even more clear. And she could also breathe the light out by will, reminding me of small stars. She never spoke much, but her music could be heard – and seen more often.”
I nodded, and he stayed a bit more until he went back to his wife. By the door he turned around and told me: ”One more thing… I have a message for you from Raolor. ’Ma mauya? (Is it necessary?)’ He added that truth is only in necessity, and necessity drives the true artist.” I thanked him as he waved goodbye, closed the door and started thinking all that was said.
Absent mindedly I started to fondle the bristles of my paintbrush. I looked down and took it in my hand. I opened the cabinet of my pigments and I saw blue pigment and some linseed oil. ”Why not,” I started thinking. I mixed the paint out of them and started working on the picture of Varda. I couldn’t begin to imagine her face so her hand would have to do for now. I would try to capture her essence on a canvas.
”It is very blue,” I thought. I wanted some other pigments to subtly enliven the colour. I found the green… and then was struck when I saw the red.
Red… as holly berries.
As roses.
As Lord Anglachelm’s gloves.
As Lady Danel's headdress.
As Lord Themodir’s wine.
As Lady Norliriel’s antidote.
Red… as blood.
Again I found myself looking out the window in Eregion as around thirty year old elfling. My mother has placed her hand over my shoulder in an ominous silence. Then the sounds of battle grow nearer, but we are staying still. When the sound of the enemy comes by the door and I hear slamming, my mother says in my ear: ”Go, hide behind those doors.” I look at her scared saying ”Amillë? What about you…?”
The door gives in. ”I’ll take care of myself. Now go!” she says. I hide behind the doors and hear the Orc searchers stepping inside my home. All I hear is footsteps until my mother lets out a muffled scream as she is grabbed from behind. I hear hoarse laughter and uneasy breathing. What are they doing to her?
When the orc sounds recede I hear my mother no more. When I open the door I see my unfinished paintings… with red flowing down the canvas. I’m frightened to my very fëa to see what else there is. I find my mother alone on the floor, covered with the same red color as the paintings, clothes torn and staring blankly at the ceiling. I take her in my arms, embracing her despite the battle raging around. The same red colour sticks onto my clothes. It isn’t my blood, so why do I feel like I’m dying?
When the sound of battle quiets I walk outside like a mindless husk. I hear sounds of the Elves that notice me, and I follow them near blindly, muttering something I no longer remember. They tell someone to check on me, but that is the last memory I have.
When I returned to the present, I looked at the painting I had in front of me. Then I recalled why it felt so very soothing to paint it – the bright colour red was not there. Nearly each time I had made a portrait for Vanimar, there had been red. It doesn’t not hurt me to see it settled somewhere, but when it’s still flowing on the white flax canvas, it feels like I’m stabbed. But it has been a pain I have been willing to endure for art. To not let them win. But it is very hard.
Then the words of my father come to my mind all of a sudden. ”Son, there are three things to remember to make a proper lord of Noldor. Be a well spoken gentle-Elf. Act by what you know, not by what you guess. Face your fears.”
I knew the first one, it is something I’ve used to mask my fears. The second was also the lesson of my mother. It’s the third one I had not yet managed to do. ”Is it necessary… Face your fears…” I kept repeating inside my mind. Yes, it is necessary for me to face my fears. I have postponed it for too long, left my wound unhealed even without telling Elvealin about it.
But for now, have I finished the painting of Varda and I taken it to the Harp Hall. The next painting will finally be of Manadhlaer and this time I won’t accept any excuses from myself.
