Watercolor by Anita Morozova

Ask me what I reach for at three in the morning,

and I will answer with my hands on the watercolor pans.

It is not a romantic habit. It is closer to a nervous one. The rest of my work is sensible: charcoal studies on small formats, tidy erasures, controlled lines that do what I ask. Watercolor is the exception I allow myself because it is cheap and dries fast and does not take up much space on the desk. Those are the practical reasons. There may be others but I have not looked at them closely.

Professor Halberd catches me with the pans open one afternoon and quirks an eyebrow. "A risky medium," he says. I take it as a gentle warning about permanence, about the difficulty of correcting mistakes in a medium that does not erase. I nod and say I am aware of the limitations. He looks at the paper in front of me for a moment longer than I expect, then walks away without saying anything else. I think I may have interrupted his train of thought.

I like the way paint runs when you stop trying to make it behave. A wet edge surprises you with a line you never planned. I have learned to tilt the paper at a specific angle so the pigment finds its own corridors, and the result looks accidental even though the conditions were arranged. I think of this as a small technical trick, useful the way a steady wrist is useful. I practice it until it is reliable. That is just discipline, I think. Any student who worked at it long enough would get the same result.

My friend Olya watches me once, standing close enough that I can hear her breathing change. I lift the wet paper and let the color run toward the bottom edge, and she makes a sound that is almost not a sound. She keeps her hands pushed into her coat pockets the whole time. When I set the paper down she says, quietly, "you let it go". I am not sure what she means exactly, so I tell her about the angle, the water-to-pigment ratio, the way you have to wet the paper evenly or the bloom goes muddy at the edges. She listens. She does not ask any follow-up questions about the technique. I think maybe she is tired.

I am accepted into the end-of-year review. I assume it is because I submitted before the deadline, which is a requirement that a surprising number of people treat as optional.

On installation day, Professor Halberd pins my largest piece to the wall himself. He steps back and stands there without speaking. I wonder if it is hanging crooked. I offer to straighten it. He says it's straight, and keeps looking at it. Eventually he leaves and I go back to labeling my mat boards.

The opening is on a Thursday. A woman I do not know stands in front of my work for a long time, long enough that I wait nearby to offer my artist's statement card and she does not turn around. When she finally does, the skin beneath her eyes is shiny. The building is old and the heating is poor and dry air does that to people. I hand her the card. She reads it, both sides, and then she looks at me with an expression that takes up her whole face. She asks, "Is this really all you think it is?"

I tell her yes, and I explain the process carefully because I want her to understand that it is not mysterious. The angle of the paper. The ratio. The way you practice a thing until it looks like you did not practice it. She nods slowly while I talk. When I finish she folds the card and puts it into her coat pocket, which I decide means she found the technical information useful.

She looks at me once more before she moves on. It is a long look. I think perhaps I had spinach in my teeth.

I go home and rinse my brushes in the order I always rinse them. I think the evening went well. I think I explained myself clearly. I think, if anything, I may have overstated how difficult the technique is, because really, once you understand the angle, it is not so hard.

The pans are still open on my desk. I reach for them without meaning to.

It is three in the morning again, or close enough.