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Strato stood in front of the star of this exhibit, his biggest painting taking over almost the entire wall. This was called his grande comeback to art. A hiatus as they call it- an enlightenment as he says. Starting with the first time he closed his eyes and saw a world where he finally knew what true happiness was like, was freed from the cave and saw the sun for the first time and not just the shadows casted by a fire. What else was he supposed to do if not try and show the truth to others, even if he failed to do so time and time again. Nobody would ever understand as he did.
If he was being honest, he hated every piece on display, never even wanted to display them in the first place. The shades of each colour were off, the lines at the end of the day all too strong, never soft enough, never deep enough, never enough. But after weeks locked in his atelier they broke in and considered them all masterpieces. An exhibit brought good money so who was he to complain, that’s what he was told. Nevermind his current status and wealth.
They ate up the whole thing. ‘The brushstrokes have such passion’ they said about how caring her face was painted. ‘It’s about the lack of identity and self’ they said about how an angry black covers the face of each and every portrait. ‘The artist must be proud’ They said as more people trickled in just to see the famed images.
They could not see her. They did not know her. They would not find her.
By god, he tried. Would tear the whole globe apart for a glimpse, scoured through his dreams for the sound of her voice. He could not find a single clue of who she was beyond his mind falling apart every time he closed his eyes. He could not find her anywhere except in the corners of his mind and they would not even find her in the very paintings she was subject of.
Every word he heard infuriated him because nobody could see what he did, yet he did not move, rather he stood as if chained to the ground by his ankles in front of the painting. He wore a long coat, the collar up and sunglasses on his nose, as if blinded by what was in front of him. It hid his thinned body rather well, the way his eyes were sunken in and had dark bags beneath. He both sought for sleep and resented it.
To sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream.
To dream of that beautiful figure, with a voice sweet like honey but words no man spoke. A face of ethereal beauty with lines going through it he could not understand. She didn’t exist- she must- she didn’t. Perhaps he should seek help like advised but what would he do if he could never see that face again. Could never feel her soft skin beneath his hands again. Could never press his nose into that wild hair again.
Perhaps he was asleep. He looked at the painting of her. A giant portrait, the only one where the eyes weren’t crossed out completely but rather she was staring directly at the viewer, directly at him. They were still wrong, the closest he ever got, but he was stopped before he could defile even this one. Flowers surrounded her visage, the bottom held roses as if the viewer was handing over a bouquet, the sides had forget-me-nots climbing up and framing the picture and framing her face was a Clematis, the petals holding a soft purple line going through the middle while the edges were an innocent white.
He felt poor. Poorer than anyone, lacking her. Perhaps reality was within his dream, where her image was crystal clear and so close, so damn close. He heard a figure speak, like they knew everything, a pride so disgusting it made gall come up his throat. They talked about how the painting was about the beauty of inhumanity, how the figure was a mere symbol, with those lines on her face that made it seem like most of it was metal plates. That the painting was about mourning humanity but celebrating intellect.
Strato’s fist clenched and it took everything not to punch that moron. How wrong he was, about everything, how he acted like he knew. He spouted nonsense like it was a gospel. The painting was his Goddess and his tormentor. If he looked close enough he could see her beckon him to herself. What would he lose? Everything was taken care of after all.
He did not move. The exhibit closed and it almost seemed like nobody noticed him still standing in front of the painting, even as the building was locked.A harsh click echos and the lights flickered out around him, leaving him alone in the dark.. Perhaps not quite alone, alone with her. She was clear in front of him, even clearer in the dark. He could still see those green eyes staring right at him, almost daring him to- to do what exactly? He both knew and yet did not. What he did know for certain was he would not be one to deny her anything.
The next morning famous painter Strato Butcher was missing. His most recent exhibit ‘of what we dream’ was torn, each painting shredded to a point it was unrecognizable save for one. The main attraction, ‘Annie’, an enormous painting depicting a woman smiling at something behind the frame, was left perfectly intact, though prior visitors of the exhibit all agreed that the painting looked different but none could say just what had changed.