Painting with Arthur

You set the canvas on the easel while Arthur carefully picks each paint bottle out of the basket, arraying them on the table along with the brushes.

As you take out the last of the supplies – the jar of turpentine – he stands akimbo and surveys your set-up, gaze lingering on the startlingly white square of empty canvas. Beyond it the river snakes through the trees, its gurgling bright and silvery. You’ve made camp in your favorite spot by the river – without your dragon companion, who is currently out flying with Elewen.

“Alright,” Arthur says. “Where do we start?” He gives a small laugh, equal parts excited and nervous.

This is where you take on,slipping into your tutor role. You’ve been preparing for this ever since Arthur expressed an interest in trying out painting – which he knows you to be so passionate about. Ever since that letter prior to his arrival you’ve asked mother to restock all your paints, and went out together to buy canvas and wooden frames, bigger and smaller.

“First,” you say, “we stare. And maybe squint a little bit.”

Arthur falls dutifully in line besides you, hands folded at his back.

You smile and sweep a hand over the idyllic forest scenery. “Think of what you want to paint exactly, for a start.”

“Well, the river and the trees and the sky.” He waves a hand through the air, trying to impress his vision upon you. “This little corner of nature, I suppose.” You nod, so he goes on: “Do I need to squint now?”

“Yes,” you say, utterly earnest. “Look at the scenery. Not at the details, but the form of it. The shapes within it. They’re like our building blocks. Also, the–” you purse your lips and tilt your head hoping the correct word will shake loose from somewhere within. “I want you to pay attention to the colors, but not their hues. We’re interested in which are the darkest, and the lightest.”

Arthur is not completely in the dark concerning the concepts you’re about to breach. Due to his whittling experience, he has an eye for shapes, how shadow and light interact – he understands the world around him so well as to be able to make it into something new, to interpret and translate what he sees. He turns unassuming wooden blocks into statuettes of lush detail, of realistic and stylized cuts alike.He has also painted in oil before, albeit on his wooden sculptures, which means he knows his color theory well enough that you needn’t lecture him on that front.

All that being said, it is an utterly different craft you’re talking about now, with its own approaches. Nevertheless, you trust he’ll be able to keep up well with your instructions.

Not that you think your explanations are hard to follow. You speak patiently, in spite of all of your enthusiasm, as you go on about shapes and colors, about distant and closer planes. Arthur listens intently as he settles before the canvas, and mixes colors according to your advice. He scrunches up his nose when he dips the brush in turpentine – the smell of it is sweet yet potent. After years of watching Morgana paint and working alongside her, you’re well accustomed to the scent of the thinner, as well as that of the paints themselves, so much so that you find them oddly pleasant and comforting. Even if after a while the smells start scratching at the back of your throat.

You start off by sectioning the canvas in three planes: the sky, the trees, the ground with the slithering river. You direct Arthur to narrow his eyes til the details blur into each other, til all he sees is a haze of hues and basic forms that you want him to translate on canvas.

There’s something almost self-soothing about breaking down the steps you take, the knowledge you have; of relaying it onto Arthur as Morgana did onto you, gently guiding your little hand to show how to trace the brush against the canvas,explaining in detail how or why she mixed paints.

Arthur’s thoughts are also turned onto Morgana. “You said your mother taught you, didn’t she? While she stayed at Camelot Castle, I heard she used to spend a lot of time painting. Out in nature, as long as the weather allowed. I spotted her a couple times, with Accolon and little Gareth accompanying her. Sometimes she was alone, though.”

You’re surprised to hear Arthur mention that period of time. He barely brings it up on his own, and if a conversation ever veers too close in its direction he quickly redirects it. It’s obvious that a sense of unease clings to those nine months your mother spent in Camelot leading up to your birth, and it’s clear your conception lies at the heart of his discomfort. You don’t like lingering on those thoughts, either. Those slimy thoughts that remind you of the Le Fay blood shared between you, Arthur and mother.

So you push them down and focus on Arthur’s soft-spoken voice. “She’s very skilled, from what I’ve seen.” A strange expression passes over his face – you can’t decide if it’s a smile or grimace or something in between, but it’s rueful all the same.

You don’t pry; instead you seek to iron out over this moment with some encouragement.

“You’re doing great,” you say as he draws the foliage. He applies the green with a delicate hand less suggestive of precision, and more of insecurity, like he might damage the painting any moment.

You assured him the beauty of oil paint lies in the ease of remedying a blunder, as well as making later changes. He just needs to relax and have fun with it. Besides, even if he does bungle something, you won’t fault him for it. Let’s say it simply lands the art...a certain level of stylization.

“Thank you,” Arthur inclines his head at your praise. “I have a good tutor.”

You smile as a swell of pride washes over you.

“I’d say you’re faring better than me when you taught me whittling,” you say, thinking back on your very first attempt.

As you’re now showing Arthur how to paint in oil, so had he taught you how to carve. He’d responded with the same enthusiasm you did to his request when you asked him to tutor you. He bought you your own tools and walked you with patience through the process, his passion for the craft plain to read. It was a blast, and brought you closer; it’s nice to return the favor, introducing him to something that means just as much to you.

You’d wanted to carve a dog, since Arthur’s so fond of them. It all went relatively well until a poorly-executed cut of your knife lead to the wooden sculpture’s decapitation.

He chuckles good-naturedly. “But you weren’t deterred. You whittled on and the dog came out very cute.” He glances at you. “I still have it on my desk.”

It melts your heart to think of that first, misshapen yet oddly endearing carving attempt. It sits atop Arthur’s desk among his skillfully-crafted statues, for him to look upon and smile wistfully, remembering that peaceful evening spent carving and looking forward to many more like it.

“This is...shaping up, isn’t it?” Arthur says hopefully, tilting his head as he inspects the canvas. “It reminds me a bit of whittling – going on from basic forms and blobs to create something.”

After a while you take a break to munch apples, drink tea and simply languish by the river, watching as sunlight renders the waves diamantine. You don’t loiter much, though – Arthur is intent on finishing the painting before the sun slips too further down on the sky, so you may be back in time for dinner. You mostly hover by his side, alternating between painterly advice and amiable chatter. Sometimes you’ll step in to show him how to execute certain brushstrokes and where to apply certain colors.

When he’s done, you both stand before the easel, taking in his work.

“It’s alright?” It’s half request for reassurance, half uncertain question.

“It’s great,” you say, smiling up at him. It may not be one of Morgana’s elaborate, expert pieces; it has a simple composition and he executed it well, with care and, most importantly, with heart.

“It’ll take a good while for the paint to properly dry,” you say as you begin packing up the art supplies, “but you can take it back to Camelot with you if you store it properly.”

Arthur stares a moment longer at his work before looking at you. “Actually, I want you to have it. If you’ll have it.”

You halt just as you are placing the paint bottles in the basket, glass chiming like bells, then turn to him.

“Of course!” You can’t keep the smile off your face, and neither can Arthur.

And you know exactly where you’ll hang it in your chambers.