» / Prose/ Horror/ Portion of a Portrait/ Brush and Paint/
| The fire flickered in the background, now the only source of light as heavy drapes prevented any ray of light from filtering into the room. Victoria sensed that this right, this certainly felt right and wanted to be as accurate as possible when it came to playing the part of her character. Something within Victoria whispered to her, telling her that even a thin filament of natural untamed light could somehow harm or potentially kill her character’s muse.
Even from a distance, she could feel the warmth of the fire as she watched as the flames danced over the logs consuming the wood. Eventually she knew, everything would be reduced to a fine ash, or dust depended on which cycle one considered. It came as no surprise as to why the witness of such power would garner the respect of many including that of her character. “Scared? No... Scared is too harsh a word.” The author said aloud, knowing full well that her character would never openly fear such things. No, while it could have provided Victoria with some interesting avenues in which to explore her writings, it simply felt wrong sensing that Evelyn, the woman whom she looked up to would certainly not be crippled by fear over such matters. Victoria instead, turned her attention to the empty canvas before her, wondering why she had even decided to experiment with brush and paint. Never before, had she attempted to create as such in the past (other then perhaps finger painting as a child), yet it all seemed to be very familiar to her now; the thickness, texture and the exact mix of certain colours of the paint were all exactly as they should be to reach just the right tone. She did not understand how this knowledge came to mind, nor could she know how this information seamlessly flowed in with her thoughts as though she were born with it. How could Victoria have accomplished so much, when she could not even explain how, the canvas had been stretched and nailed onto its wooden frame, in turn allowing her to begin the creation of a lifetime? “The creation of a lifetime?” These words echoed back to her, filling her with a sense of comfort in hearing a voice even if it was simply her own. That comfort soon faded as doubt settled into the back of her mind, the feeling that a vulture who watched her from his perch waited for her to fail ending up their evening’s meal. “What am I to create?” “Is there something missing or something wrong?” Something was wrong; an element which was missing in from the equation order to duplicate the working efforts of her character in complete detail. This apprentice had simply pushed it out of her mind, her years of social training had thought her that such things were improper and if anything lacking in the attributes of a true lady. “Hah!” She thought, knowing that it was she nothing more then a lady very was much comforted by the warmth they provided. She paced around the canvas wondering what was missing; Victoria never really realized her hands were playing with the top button of her blouse, circling around the synthetic material as she moved about. These actions, a reflection of the realization hidden deep within her soul, where deep down this author understood that in order to be like her character, there would be a need to go well beyond accustomed social norms and step into the world of the eccentric. In reality there was no real desire to become her character; instead there was a simple interest in experiencing the creation of art in the same way her written creation did. Perhaps it was this lack of true aspiration that hindered her ability to continue? Or was it a case of lacking the experience of life itself? Once again, her gaze turned away from the canvas as to watch the dancing flames lost in thought until the realization of this missing ingredient surfaced to the forefront of her mind. “No!” Victoria responded in objection, only to find that her body had already done what the mind was unwilling to do, leaving her with the bulk of her clothing in a puddle on the ground. Unlike her character childish perhaps in such fears Victoria chose instead to remain covered where it was appropriate, not that it mattered, yet this eased her mind, allowing her to pass over this minor impasse. Now with the board set and all pieces set for war, the mood was set, leaving her with nothing to worry about; other then creating a work of art on the canvas before her. Closing her eyes, Victoria took in a deep breath allowing the sounds of the fire and the faint creaking of the floor beneath her bare feet to take over her senses. Never before, had she felt so alive and connected with the world around her. She had become the master of her chosen art, elements that lay before her in the form of canvas, brushes and a palette of fine paints seemed no more daunting to her now then a pen and paper awaiting a signature. The rest of the evening became nothing more then a blur, as though she had been entranced by the magic of the moment, recalling only brief flashes of consciousness as she worked on the painting, creating at first with wild untamed strokes, only to make observe details appearing as the image before her took physical shape. A fly on the wall would have seen a blank canvas being slashed wildly by the brushes filled with the most vibrant of colours from the palette. These colours gave way to the finer more precise strokes filled more sombre colours choices, taking away from the base perhaps, yet brining out the details as to draw on the beauty of the image. When Victoria awoke, she found herself seated in a chair near the canvas covered in a warm blanket, one that she recognized as the having been taken from her bedroom. She did not recall ever having gone to fetch it during the night, or even knew what time it was. Yet the memories began to trickle into her mind filling her with memories of creation that she would have never fathomed to be possible. Victoria yelped in shock as she began to rise from the chair and noticed that her body was now completely devoid of clothing, with an occasional splotch of paint covering the random part of her skin. So she grabbed the blanket, slipping the material around her waste before venturing closer to the covered canvas. “Let us see how well I succeeded at making a smiley?” Pulling the plain white sheet away from the canvas, Victoria’s eyes opened wide as she looked upon the creation. No one would have believed her if she had attempted to tell her that this was a work by her own hand. She’d even have her own doubts and did even now she laid eyes on the work before her, yet it must have been her own strokes which had created this work. After all no one else had entered her inner sanctum, leaving an unclothed woman behind simply to replace her childish work with this masterpiece? “My god.” She said along with a sharp gasp, knowing full well that no god or any divine presence in the world had anything to do with this. Here was a woman that had never before touched a canvas recreating the works of an artist that had been laid to rest four centuries past. She was looking at a model that would have been considered by many to be young, but very much a woman of marrying age when it had been originally painted. A woman dressed in the finest court gown, lips full, that entrancing smile with eyes which seemingly peered through the time and space showing the world that these were not the eyes of an innocent, but those of woman wise beyond her years. The hair and gown where perfectly suited for the rank of a countess of the French court. People seldom knew or cared such knowledge, which really cared that the length of hair for woman was dictated by her position in the court. A countess would have been required to wear their hair at shoulder length, very much as the woman before her was. It was a well-planned charade historically speaking. The woman in the painting was actually a courtesan on the streets of Paris and would have never been given such station in life. Not even with a King, which forced the Roman Catholic Church to allow him the privilege of mistresses, would have been so generous to a woman like Evelyn. “Especially to one so thin, frail looking, lacking the plump bosoms of Hollywood trash.” She knew this woman and knew well this image. It had been carved into her mind since she had been a child, but why the recreation? Why would she need a physical representation when as such the details in her mind were so vivid? Was this really a painting that existed in the waking world, one that she could find as a local museum or was this simply a figment of her imagination? She knew all of these answers; her mind was simply not willing to accept them for what they were. Victoria knew not what was happening and could not explain how she could find an old art store in the middle of a metropolis, let alone know the name of its owner! Nor could she explain how she could suddenly master a new language only to forget it as soon as she had left the doors. There was still an aura of innocents about her, one that would have to be lost for her to really be opened to the realities surrounding her life. She suddenly found herself exhausted. Looking at the clock, she noticed that the world had not gone idle while in her trance and instead pushed forward most of the evening into the next. Taking this to heart, she headed for her bedroom with much on her mind and even more to consider for the following day. The following morning she would find just how hard it was to get rub the red paint from her skin. |
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