This scene (and many of my others) where i describe her creating her paintings i think are some of my best written and most unique scenes, because it bleeds all of it's drama out of the emotions she's putting into HER work of arts, and the vivid mental imagery:
As if someone lit the bed on fire, I hurry out of the tangled blankets, and make my way barefoot through the dark, down the stairs, fingertips barely lighting on the banisters, and gliding hellward like a figure skater on mahogany ice.
I turn on a dim, fluorescent lamp, and remove the shade, letting the full light shine on this corner of the messy living room. The easel is where I left it, and I pull a clean canvas from its place next to the paint-mottled throw pillow and roll up the sleeves of my pajamas.
Too lazy to pull out the brushes and water, I force the acrylics from their tubes and dip my fingers into the primaries without blending, without proper preparations - I poke my fury into the face of the empty white and streak and smear my fingerprints across the blank space in an ugly puke-ish hurricane of color.
Lines become scalloped rainbow waves in the blurry blue-yellow tempest. I paint a red mouth with a tainted, toothy grin where the canines glow yellow, like a lion-ish clown. The eyes stare out at me blankly, and I know they should be fire, bitter with passion, and judgment, judging me.
Blue streaks become feathers and the feathers smear blue with red into lavender-violet at the ends, a yellow cat face, ruddy with muddy red patching its visage like graffiti, or paint swatches of the most basic shades - brilliantly commonplace, and not special. Not special at all.
The lion with its feathered mane stares me down with that same expression that haunts me, and the voice, says drily, âFair enough.â
The worst part is the way he tried not to swallow - not to let Etan see that lump in his throat.
It was true. I could speak for myself. I never would - but I could, and I should have.
I take my index finger and twirl two dots of paint into an un-homogenous green - draw two aquamarine streets unequally streaked with shades of seafoam and mint down the lionâs face, pooling at the base of his strong jaw.
I know he was crying, on the inside, for me. He wanted to tell me to run - but it was too late for that.
(Art by Mariel Leister)
