The Artist At Work

“I am sorry.” I spoke softly, “does it hurt you so much?”

His eyes met mine. “Yes, it does - very much. I’ve just painted my last work … my last masterpiece. And no one will ever see it, or have it.”

I was confused. “But there’s nothing on it!”

“That’s because you haven’t opened your Third eye - look again.”

I turned to stare at the canvas again … that was when I saw the actual painting, faintly at first then suddenly it began to assume shape. The vivid colours dazzled my eyes and I smiled. “It is very beautiful.”

“You do see it. Is it really lovely?”

“Yes!” I turned back at him; my face was all smiles. “Its far prettier than your previous ones. You must keep it.”

“You’re right,” he stood up and walked over to the grocery bags on the table. “That’s exactly what I intend to.”

He tore open the grocery bags and brought out two white plastic cans. He unscrewed the caps and I caught the foul smell of gasoline. He held them wide across on his hands and began splashing them all over the table, the walls, and all over the floor. I stood there like a statue watching him go round the room, too scared to do anything. Thom meowed and scampered around haphazardly trying to get out of his way; I quickly ran over to her rescue and picked her up. His face was devoid of emotion while he did his work. He saved some remaining drops for last, which he splashed all over the canvas. The entire room now reeked of gasoline.

When the cans finally became empty he flung them across the room, dipped his hand into his jean pocket and brought out a pack of matches.

“Sir,” my voice shook with fright. “Please sir, what are you doing?”

He turned to look at me. “Tell me my young friend, what’s the use leaving it to exist when no one, not even I, deserves to own it.”

I stared back at him, too dumb to reply.

“Exactly.” He fished out two sticks of matches and scratched them alight.

“But how would you live without it?” I pleaded with him, “I mean what’s the use painting something and not having anyone to see it?”

He looked at me with his sad smile, his hand with the burning matches held high above his head.

“For immortality,” he said and dropped the matches on the floor. There was a whoosh-like sound and suddenly bright yellow flame erupted all around the floor and began to spread.

I yelled and jumped and took several steps back till my back touched the door as fire slithered with speed all over the floor, unto the table, the couch, and upon the walls as well. I stood there with fear in my heart, my body shaking all over, watching unbelievably as the flames climb up the tripod and began eating up the canvas. The room was getting very hot and filled with smoke - Thom frantically cried out and struggled all over my arm - when I grabbed the door handle and pushed it open.

Smoke and little bits of flame jumped out behind me as I fell on the ground gasping for air and coughing at the same. Whiskey jumped around me excitedly and barked endlessly. All around me I could hear approaching footsteps along with screaming voices and suddenly I felt large strong hands grab my shoulder and drag me away.

It wasn’t long before the entire village woke up and saw the burning spectacle from their window. At once they knew whose house it was and they quickly wore on back their day clothes and rushed over. Throughout the rest of the night they threw endless buckets of water at it to no avail. Finally during the early hours of dawn they woefully sat down across the street by the gutter and watched it burn down. Nobody said anything - at that moment they were too shaken and dumbfounded to know what to say to each other.

By noon, wisps of smoke still curled off the ravaged remains of the house. It was a matter of luck and wonder that the fire never touched the main house. They quickly set up a cleaning team to sift through the remains but it wasn’t until late in the evening that they made an important discovery: the artist’s body was nowhere amongst the rubble. They repeated their quest the following day and the day after but still nothing turned up.

A tremor of fear quickly ran over the village and it wasn’t long before the rumours began flying again: could it be he was still alive? … Was he hiding somewhere and simply playing a practical joke on them? … Perhaps someone or something - maybe a witch! - snatched his body while it was still burning …

I spent a few weeks in the local hospital recuperating from some minor burns and bruises with Thom lying most of the time on my chest. It wasn’t until I was well enough to return home that the most important question started floating around: what had happened to the painting he had earlier been working on?

They all visited me at home one morning, badgering me with never-ending questions: how did we meet … what had happened … how did it all happen, and why. I answered the few ones I could though I carefully altered much, knowing fully well they would never have understood. They never looked at him the way they looked at themselves. To them he was just an artist, an entity whose life they so much wished to possess. Now that he was gone, all that’s left of their lives is an empty vessel: a midnight without daylight. A husk without existence.

“How about the painting, son,” my father asked me while the entire village loomed over me around my bed. “Tell us, did you see it?”

I nodded my head. “Yes father, I saw it.”

Impatiently: “Well then tell us, how was it … what was on it?” They all loomed closer, breathing into my face to catch what I was about to say.

“I can’t say I knew what it was … but in the end, it was beautiful.”

Several months have gone by since I spoke those words.

A few weeks after the incident, the artist’s family came by to claim what was left. They kept much of his stuff except for several of his survived paintings, which they hurriedly sold. His mother had fainted in the sitting room and had quickly been rushed to the nearby clinic. A month later they had given him a decent burial though with an empty coffin, which the Reverend Father presided over; almost everyone in the village cried that day.

Few weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, I had returned home from a friends’ house to receive a letter from the postman. It had no return address on it, except for a little note that said

Please look after Thom for me.

Thanks.

My heart fluttered for a brief moment after I read it. I quickly looked around to see if anyone was about before rolling it into a ball and swallowed it.

Though folks here still talk about the artist, but most especially about the painting they never saw. They still pry me with questions about it but I always shake them off easily.

But almost every night whenever I go to sleep, I could still make out the plain canvas sitting on the tripod stand, waiting for my hand to touch it. I could even make out the beautiful artwork with the dazzling colours and shadows floating off it. Indeed, it is what dreams are made up of: those shimmering lights of immortality.

THE END

12TH September 2003.