A/N: So this is my first foray into the world of Office fanfiction, and it's been sitting on my desktop for a looooong time. I've always loved the episode "Business School," partially because it was the first time I actually liked Michael, and partially for the delicious angst. I've finally worked up the courage to post this post-episode piece, so let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the awesomeness that is the Office.
"True art takes courage, okay? And-and honesty".
"Those aren't Pam's strong points."
"Exactly. That's why this is hotel art."
Courage and honesty
Not Pam's strong points
Those words hurt, a sucker punch to the stomach that had driven the air right out of her. What hurt more was the knowledge that Oscar and Gil were right; that felt like someone had used a butter knife to slowly cut out a piece of her heart.
She stood in front of her easel, paint brush in one hand, palette in the other. The canvas before her was as white as the wedding dress she'd picked out for the tenth of June. She would give them true art.
Broad swaths of vermillion, the color of anger and pain. She had experienced both those emotions in spades recently. Roy was in the forefront of her mind as she laid down each sweep of the brush. The fact that red often represented love didn't even enter her thoughts.
Delicate swirls of cadmium yellow, a bright, cheerful shade. One brushstroke for every joke she and Jim had shared. The color was gone from her palette before she'd gotten through half of them.
Whorls of Prussian blue, friendship and loyalty and truth caught up in downward spirals that echoed with beautiful sorrow. It made her think of broken hearts and lost souls.
Flecks of terre verte, a contradictory color which combined the ugliness of jealousy and the beauty of new beginnings in a hue that ironically reminded her of Jim's incredible eyes. She was sure Angela would find it fitting that she incorporated so much of it into her art.
Lines of burnt sienna, the shade of her eyes, Karen's hair, and the coffee she made every morning. Warm and steady and just there…it was a symbolic representation of Jim.
Short strokes of Payne's gray, a color that was exceptionally complex despite its rather unassuming appearance. It stood for monotony, the space between absolutes, reality, stability, emptiness, neutrality, regret, life and death. It could be the absence of meaning, or it could mean everything. It was the color her world had attained.
As the last rays of sunlight filtered through the window blinds of her studio apartment, she took a deep breath and lowered her brush for the last time.
Taking a step back, she swept a critical eye over her work.
Water took up the first third of her canvas, a lake with angry waves tinted a sickly green. Attempting to ride out the storm was a familiar white cruise ship silhouetted against a flaming sky, the name "Queen of Hearts" emblazoned on its side.
Standing atop the tallest mast with its long plumes caught in the sails was a heron, its outstretched wings absorbing the very fire from the sky. Her father had always loved mythology, and most of her bedtime stories had originated in other cultures thousands of years before. The one she had loved the best was the tale of the ancient Egyptian bennu, a large heron-like bird who used the destructive powers of fire to renew itself, and had thus survived countless centuries. Its very name meant "to rise in brilliance."
She thought it fitting.
Something that felt suspiciously like satisfaction flooded through her and with the softest of sighs she set about cleaning up her supplies, shaking her head with a rueful smile when she noticed the fresh smudges of paint on her pants and arms. Roy would have rolled his eyes at her and told her not to touch the furniture; and Jim…she imagined Jim would have given her that goofy, sweet smile and asked if she'd actually managed to get any paint on the canvas.
But that was before; now, whether she liked it or not, she was on her own.
Her art instructor, a middle-aged woman with a sharply angled face and a thick Sicilian accent, stared at the painting for what seemed like ages before turning her fierce hawk-like gaze on her student, "This is what I always knew you were capable of, Pamela."
Stunned, her mouth opened and closed a few times before she finally managed to sputter, "Y-you like it?"
The woman inclined her head, "You've always had talent, but this piece of art was done with passion; it is your true reflection," she paused and turned back to the painting, "What will you call it?"
"Call it?" How could she possibly put its meaning into words?
"Let me tell you a little secret, Pamela," her instructor gave her an enigmatic smile, "Each piece of art, if it is true art, already has a name. And somewhere, deep in your heart of hearts, you already know what it is, because your painting is a part of you. You just have to listen to what your soul is telling you."
She thought about it for a week, wracking her brain for a title that would be perfect for the only piece of art she had ever truly cared about.
She felt like an absolute failure; here she was grasping at straws when, according to her instructor, this was something that should have come easily to her.
Distracted at work, she had been called on her behavior a few times, most recently by Dwight, which didn't bother her as much as the fact that Jim didn't say anything in her defense. Then she felt like an idiot for expecting him to continue in his role as her white knight. She felt so horribly isolated, like she was a stranger in an environment that used to be more familiar to her than her own home.
Ironically enough, it was at work where she finally found her answer, and with it the sense of completeness that had thus far eluded her.
The entire office was gathered in the conference room for another one of Michael's pointless meetings, and she was paying even less attention than normal when Stanley started mumbling under his breath. Her brain was working more slowly than her ears and it took her a couple of seconds to realize he was trying to work out a crossword clue audibly.
"Hey Stanley, what did you just say?" she kept her voice as low as she could, not wanting to draw anyone else's attention.
He blinked and turned slowly to look at her, like he thought she was crazy, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
She raised her voice a fraction, "You just said something…it was something about truth?"
He rolled his eyes in typical Stanley fashion, "Latin word for truth."
A memory came to her then of having her hair tightly braided, clutching her grandmother's hand while staring wide-eyed at the windows made up of pictures, listening to a tall man with a funny hat chant words she didn't understand.
It had been the first and only time she had attended a traditional Catholic mass and she remembered one phrase in particular that the priest had repeated multiple times. Afterword she had asked her grandmother what it meant. She had smiled indulgently and replied, "It means 'the simple truth,' child."
"That's it!" she followed up her exclamation by wrapping her arms around a stunned Stanley, forgetting for a moment where she was and what she was supposed to be doing.
It wasn't until she heard Michael call out, "Yes! I love the enthusiasm Pam; that's what I'm looking for," that she realized everyone in the room had turned to stare at her. For once, she couldn't find it in herself to care that she was the center of attention. She had found the name of her painting
Simplex Veritas
It was perfect.
At five o'clock she stopped Oscar on his way out, "I just wanted to let you know that I'm having another art show in about a month."
He looked more than a little confused, "Okay…"
She couldn't help but smile; Fancy New Beesly was really throwing people off, "I'd really like it if you and Gil were there."
He nodded once as he shrugged on his coat, "Yeah, I'll talk to him about it."
"And Oscar?" She stood up from behind her desk.
He paused in the doorway, "Yes?"
"Thank you; and tell Gil thank you as well."
If he had looked confused before, he now looked completely bewildered. "Um…yeah, sure thing."
She covered her mouth with her hand so he wouldn't think she was laughing at him. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight Pam." He disappeared down the hallway.
When she was sure he was gone she let her control slip and the laughter bubbled out of her, warm and uninhibited.
She felt lighter than she had in months.