| FALL 2002 |
flashquake Fiction |
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She came to me a week ago and she's been with me ever since. Filtered morning sunlight filled my white room. Only my guard, as bored as ever, had arrived before her. She stood in front of me for a long time, though some neighbouring paintings are more famous than me. I've been here for decades, almost forgotten, because my image isn't sold in the shops. She was delighted to find me and stood close enough for an embrace. I followed her billowing thoughts. She imagined herself watching me-- in the time when I still inhabited flesh-- as I painted in the cafe while she drank wine nearby. She came to me when I finished-- how I wish it had really happened that way!-- and shared the last of her bottle. She understood my bitterness and hope, and we held our loneliness at bay for a little while. 
She smiled at me, here in my quiet room, as though I was still made of flesh. Until she arrived I didn't know how lonely I'd become. Hordes of people only look at my surface. Young painters lean in close to me, but they only hope to discover my technique and use it themselves. Some have stood nearby and copied the strokes my brush and palette knife made so long ago. What they really need to master will never be learned here: it's difficult to capture your own soul with canvas and paint. I succeeded where many fail. Even so, people don't take the time to look at me deeply enough to notice. She did. She ignored the others who strayed in, glanced at me, and then passed on. She touched my cheeks with her sea green eyes, and I could feel her caress. Her face was rapt, like the angel in the Raphael Madonna. Her dark hair cascaded, as though blown by a fresh breeze. I revelled in her youth and felt that I was truly alive again. Speech eluded me, but I showed her my best side. Colours danced on my face. Others failed to notice my increased luminosity, but she came to know me intimately. I felt as though I was falling in love. It's been a long time. She wandered away and came back. Each time she returned I hungered for the exquisite touch of her eyes on my face. Each time she left, I longed for her return. Late in the day, her hair swishing noisily over her shoulders, she moved towards the exit for the last time, walking as though she had seen a ghost. She has. I slept, the way that I can now. I slept and dreamt of her. We were at the seaside and I had regained my flesh, as I can in dreams. She cavorted with me in the bright sun. I painted her face, making her green eyes shine, kissing her ears with red, using every colour. My brushes caressed her; my palette knife made her dance. The moonlight saw two lovers, who wanted to play forever. I woke abruptly. A blazing glare washed out the filtered light. Cameras were being placed around me. I realized that my image was finally being reproduced for a poster in the shop. A police officer arrived and came close to me. The curator removed me from the wall-- it didn't cause a headache this time-- and allowed the officer to examine me on both sides. For all practical purposes I'm just a painting, so that's what they saw. The officer brought my guard over and asked him to stand in front of me. The guard carefully planted his feet where she had stood. He looked me in the eye, which he's never done before. He glanced at a photograph. "Yes, that's the woman who came here yesterday," he said to the officer. "She stood here, and came back several times." He lowered his voice, but I know what he said: "I heard you mention that she cut off her ear before she shot herself. Is that why you're looking at...him?" He gestured to me, looking perplexed. The officer nodded. My guard turned away and walked to his place. He struggled to make his face go blank again, but his eyes wouldn't cooperate. I could feel his fear. They don't seem to realize that she's safe with me, however mangled her flesh might be. I've been photographed often in the last few days, and my visitors have increased. My image is enlarged and available in the shop: I see that you've bought it. Look closely. You'll see her face emerging behind me in the swirling skies. When you contemplate my image, in a week or a month, I'll try to feel your presence from afar. I'll be with you then, to revel in your love. I've been found, and after all my years of exile, I'm no longer alone.
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