The BLTS Archive - Colorblind by monkee (wiecek@earthlink.net) --- Disclaimers: Paramount owns Star Trek Voyager and all of it's characters. The song 'Colorblind' belongs to Adam Duritz and the Counting Crows. Author's Notes: This is sad. And now August owes me a happy story. Maybe two! --- I am colorblind, Coffee black and egg white, Pull me out from inside, I am ready, I am ready, I am ready. . . --- I'm a Starfleet admiral, not an artist. I know this. I don't have any illusions about why I got this exhibit. I am here tonight because of Voyager's notoriety, not my artistic ability. Phoebe, who has wanted the opportunity to show her work in SoHo all her life, has been remarkable restrained. Only a few snide comments about 'real' artists have slipped out, and I heartily agree with her every time. Really, though, she's been great. She's given me a lot of good advice about how to deal with the gallery officials, the critics, and the patrons. I'd be completely lost here without her. She walked into my hotel room this morning with the early reviews of the exhibit. She had tears in her eyes and hugged me and told me how proud she was of me. 'Really,' she told me, 'competently rendered' is high praise from this guy, Kathryn. And he wouldn't just say it. . . ' I was touched by her genuine enthusiasm, and thrilled to have been considered 'competent'. I had expected to be universally lambasted in art circles, but I guess no one wants to bust the Starfleet hero. And Phoebe insists that my work is actually pretty good. I think that she means it, too, although she does tend to handle me rather. . . carefully. . . these days. I'm not fragile, really. I am fine. At least about this exhibit. And I don't mind at all that the people who are coming out to see my work are mostly non-artists. The curious, lured by the promise of 'artwork by the Captain of VOYAGER' and 'portraits of VOYAGER crewmembers' and 'Delta Quadrant landscapes and peoples'. . . I've never resented all the hype surrounding Voyager and her crew. Our journey was extraordinary, and everyone that served on that ship DESERVES the notoriety. They are heroic, every last one of them. And I've never had serious artistic aspirations. I took up the paintbrush on Voyager as a hobby – my attempt to have something other than reports, problems and self-imposed solitude to think about. I painted alien landscapes on shoreleave. I programmed holographic representations of the peoples that we encountered, and used them as models in Da Vinci's studio. And I painted portraits of many of my crewmembers, mostly from memory, as I was too embarrassed to ask people to sit for me. I was quite pleased with the way that they turned out, in fact the sketch that I did of Kes is one of my personal favorites. 'Competently rendered,' the art critic said. 'The works are, for the most part, competently rendered sketches and paintings, done in a rather controlled style, with a subdued palette.' And he's right. It's interesting, too, because it's not at all the way that I IMAGINED that I would paint. When I started out, I envisioned myself painting the way that the artists that I most admire paint – dramatic compositions, in bold and bright colors. But it didn't work out that way – I found that I couldn't force my work to fit my preconceived notions. My pieces invariably turned out. . . well, controlled. And subdued. At the time, I couldn't understand why that happened. But in retrospect, I see it clearly. My works were muted in the same way that Kathryn Janeway, the woman, had been suppressed by the burdens and restraints of commanding that ship under those circumstances. As a Captain, I was fine, for the most part. But over the years, everything that made me what I truly am was slowly fading away. I was becoming only a shadow of what I had been as a person, and it came through in my art. Because art doesn't lie. --- I am. . . taffy stuck and tongue tied, Stutter shook and uptight, Pull me out from inside, I am ready, I am ready, I am ready, I am. . . fine. --- In the article, the art critic continued, 'There is one notable exception in the collection. It is a piece entitled 'Old Barn' and seems as though it could have been painted by a different artist entirely. The style is quite bold, with bright colors in combinations that startle and satisfy. Don't miss this one.' The words bring me no real pleasure. Phoebe had to beg me to include that painting in the collection, and now I'm a little sorry that I did. Seeing it hang up there makes me feel exposed. Raw. It's too personal, too intense. I look at that painting and all I feel is the hole in my life where Chakotay should be. --- He came to me in the middle of the night, several weeks after our return. Starfleet had completed my debriefing several days earlier, and I'd gone back to Indiana to be with my mother. His debriefing sessions continued – he never told me, but I suspect they were mostly questioning him about me, rather than his Maquis activities. To this day, Starfleet regards me as somewhat of a loose canon. I broke so many directives, so many times. Anyway, he didn't contact me – just showed up in the front yard about 3 AM. He actually threw pebbles up at the house. I sat on the porch and watched him do it several times before I stood up and stepped out of the shadows. I told him that I should have just let him continue. He was aiming at my mother's window, and I would love to have heard THAT conversation. There was no pretense and no doubt between us. I went to him and we kissed, like we'd been doing it for years. He put his arm around me and we just walked. Away from the house, into the fields, which had already been harvested for the winter. It was late October, and there was a chill in the air, and dry leaves on the ground beneath the trees. We made love on his jacket in the middle of a field, under the stars and a full moon. It was slow and we were almost completely silent. It felt sacred. It was sacred. We had two months of complete joy – absolute happiness. We had both taken leave and we rented a cabin in the country and just enjoyed each other, keeping as far away from Starfleet and the media as possible. We hadn't even made any decisions about the future yet – we didn't talk about it too much, but I know that I was giving serious thought to resigning my commission. He went away for the day, once – I can't even remember where. But I stayed home, and, on a whim, got out my easel and my painting supplies and headed out the door. Our closest neighbors had a horse ranch, and on the perimeter of their property there was an old barn, unused and rickety and half-fallen down. I spent the afternoon painting it – I was just playing, having fun with it. I experimented with different stokes and brilliant colors. The red barn was a study in sharp contrasts with the lights and the deep shadows. I put bright blue highlights in the pine trees, and purple in the clouds, which swirled in a shocking cerulean sky. I remember feeling absolutely focused on what I was doing. It was COLD outside, and my fingers got numb – I had to keep blowing on them. And I lost complete track of the time, something, of course, that I could never have done on Voyager. It was exhilarating. Chakotay ended up having to come out looking for me when he got home. He found me in the fading light, squinting, still completely engaged in the work. He was delighted with what I'd done, I remember. Grinned from ear to ear. He told me that when we got a place of our own, we'd have to hang it up. But it didn't work out that way. Two weeks later, he was on his way to Utopia Planitia to see B'Elanna. He took a regular shuttle flight. There was a power surge, caused, I think, by a malfunctioning phase inducer. It overloaded the warp core and the shuttle exploded, killing everyone on board. After surviving literally dozens of close calls on Voyager, he was killed in a stupid accident that should never have happened. A stupid accident. --- I am covered in skin, No one gets to come in, Pull me out from inside, I am folding, and unfolding, and unfolding. I am fine. --- Everyone has been very supportive, of course. Mom and Phoebe, the people that I was closest too on Voyager. . . They are looking out for me – making sure that I don't sink too low. But even now, after a year, I am still numb at the abrupt loss of something that had only just begun. Still angry at the brutal unfairness of it all. And I have regrets – plenty of regrets. When Chakotay and I finally took that step, I told him that I felt we'd done the right thing – waiting. I still believed that it would have been wrong for us to get involved on Voyager. And he understood, but now, I wonder. . . I regret the years that we could have had, but did not, because I was unwilling to take the chance. But I keep going. I never indulged in the kind of hopeless grieving that I did when I lost Justin and my father, because I knew that Chakotay would not have wanted that. "Look at it as accepting what happened. . . finding the good in it," he told me once, on New Earth. It's difficult to find the good in what happened, but I try to think as he would. I honor his life, and am grateful that he was an integral part of mine for so many years. And I cherish the memories from those two precious months. I'm trying, but it's just so hard. I concentrate on the details and duties of my day-to-day life, and try not to remember too much. I can't let myself feel anymore – it's just too big a risk. In the end, I decided not to resign my commission. I NEED Starfleet now. It's not the life that I wanted, but it's something. It's a reason to get up in the morning, at least. They made me an admiral. It keeps me busy, and that's fine by me. I am. . . fine. I haven't picked up a paintbrush since the day I painted that old barn, and I can't imagine that I ever will. I know how my paintings would turn out if I did. Subdued. Washed out. Because that's what I am inside now – and it would come out in my art. Because art doesn't lie. --- I don't even remember walking over here, but somehow I find myself standing in front of the portrait that I did of Chakotay. It's better than many of the other Voyager portraits, because I actually asked Chakotay to sit for me. I did capture some of him on the canvas, too - the light in his eyes, the gentle smile, the dimples. But it really doesn't do him justice. There was always such a complexity to Chakotay. He didn't photograph well, either. He's the sort of person that you had to meet in person to appreciate. Lost in thought, I don't notice the small, dark-haired man until he nervously approaches me. "Excuse me, Admiral," he says, smiling in a way that makes me instantly suspicious. "I know that the brochure states that you are not interested in selling any of these works, but I thought that you might make an exception for this one." He gestures towards Chakotay's portrait, and says to me, conspiratorially, "I'm a dealer," he tells me, as if there were any doubt, "and I can get you quite a bit for this one. It's WORTH more than the others, of course. . . " "Why is that?" I ask him, my tone even. If he knew me any better, he'd leave now. "Because the Commander is deceased," he explains, "so naturally. . . " "Get away from me," I interrupt, my voice a low snarl, my fists clenched. "NOW." He actually backs away from me. Probably a good idea. I'm surprised at how angry I feel, despite the tears welling up in my eyes. I think that I'm capable of actually striking this horrid little man. I hear a low chuckle behind me, and a familiar voice says, "It's good to see that the infamous 'death glare' still works." I turn around. "Tom! B'Elanna! Oh, it's so good to see you!" Tom Paris gathers me up in an embrace, and I'm crying. It's a combination, I guess, of the unpleasant exchange with the dealer, and how happy I am that they are here. I didn't expect any of them to make it. In many ways, I feel closer to my former crew than I do my own family. Because we went through so much together, and they remember what I remember. I pull away from Tom, and look at B'Elanna. They are both dressed for the occasion, and B'Elanna looks striking. She also looks livid – she is glowering at the offending dealer across the room. I know what she wishes she could do, and it makes me feel vindicated, and protected. Gratefully, I hug her, too, and we're both wiping our eyes when we pull apart. "How are you?" she asks. "I'm fine," I say, automatically. They both roll their eyes, dubiously. "You always say that," Tom says. I can't help but smile. "Well," I amend, "right at this particular moment, I'm fine. I'm so glad that you're here." I lower my voice to a whisper, and add; "I was feeling a little outnumbered with all these artistic types." We talk for a while. Tom gets me another drink. And soon it's nearly over, and they have to go. We arrange to meet the next morning for breakfast, before they head back to HQ. I grasp both of their hands. "Thank you for coming," I tell them, tears threatening again, "You can't know how much it meant to me." Paris hugs me again, "Are you sure you'll be all right?" "I'll be fine. I'm fine," I assure them both. I smile and shrug at their skeptical expressions. They know what I mean. Maybe I'm not really fine, but what else can I say? After they leave, I notice that the crowds have thinned out considerably. The gallery is getting ready to close. I'm so glad – the evening has taken its toll on me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another man looking as though he's debating on whether or not to approach me. I sigh, 'Please, not again,' I think to myself, 'I can't handle another dealer.' It is a dealer. But this one has considerably more class than the first one. He seems genuinely distressed about disturbing me. He approaches me politely and respectfully and inquires not about Chakotay's portrait, but about the 'Old Barn' piece, for his own private collection. "Oh," I respond, swallowing hard to stop the tears, "No, I'm sorry. It's not for sale." He apologizes and excuses himself. After he leaves, I stare across the room at the painting. I stare at it through my tears until all of the colors whirl and blend together. I can't even imagine losing that one. It's all that I have left. --- The End