People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision, Ivan mused, smiling slightly. He knew better though, and gazed into the pristine perfection, waiting. It was always so; he sat on his small crotchety stool, placed before the open double window and stared at the canvas in anticipation of the image it would yield. Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed.
He so rarely ventured out anymore, that it was a blessing merely to feel the heated caress of the sun on his skin. He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander; art was all he had. His passion, his love was being abused, and he had to fix it. No longer did the visionaries, recepticles of miracles, bless the grey world with their presence.
They had long since vanished, replaced by a circle of dissaffected fools trying so hard to find something new and exploitable: something that tapped into that creative streak of pure colour in a tapestry otherwise dull.[/i] The truth, the secret, lay in the blood.
He sat for days, merely waiting. Some pictures were harder to coax forth then others. As in this case, it took three days; rough stubble cropped up on his delicate features and a haunted look grew in eyes stressed and red from avid search. On the brink of exhaustion he smiled suddenly, then leaned forward, nub of a pencil in multi-hued fingers and began to draw. It always gave him a rush, the feeling of creating, of power; a brush with divinity that made him ache for more. The first bold stroke, the dark outlining shapes, things previously hidden.
He could see it now: a street encrusted in filth. Against a blur of people walking by a road oozing black blood along exposed veins, there existed a miracle of nature—a puddle in a pothole. The dark rain water pooled, glacial and still, nursing in its centre, a perfect flower. Brilliant red petals fanned outward, a contrast so vivid it seemed to leak into the water, while in the centre a soft understated gold shone.
It was lovely. And yet, something was wrong. His head was pounding, his vision swam and the image he saw was flickering. Ivan felt confused, this had never happened before. Always his genius, his vision would spread unhindered across the canvas. Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, bursting silently on the floorboards. Instead of the perceived pothole, a very different image was shaping up beneath his hand—a backdrop of mountains, rising spires, trees. He shook his head, trying to clear it; blood splattered onto the canvas.
He raised a shaking hand, only now aware of the blood streaming from his nose. His breaths were rapid and short, pupils dilated. He flushed, a wave of heat rising up from the floor to his head. All the while his hands jerked and flashed erratically over the page with a will of their own and the sinister world came to life. He could see the few trees he'd individualized from the forest, sway in a breeze. He felt his body go slack and lean in, drawn closer. Suddenly his head flew backward and a massive sneeze rocked his body, spraying the art with blood, freeing him from its grasp. His mind was numb with shock, mouth agape in silent terror. But he couldn't stop. The painting had to be finished.
Night descended on the outside world and brilliant cold stars glared down on the city. The hectic rush of man and machine slowed as lights and nylon signs burst into life. Ivan reached to the side, losing the pencil and acquiring a small, fine brush. He began to gently but firmly apply pressure, smearing his blood into a light haze. The painter in him knew this shouldn't be possible, was aware that normally the blood would dry and be difficult to spread. It was as if the laws of reality had been suspended just for the unfolding of this one particular ... nightmare.
After many hours Ivan stood back, exhausted and still. He felt not the usual triumph, but a hollow emptiness. Never had he created something so powerful, so dark that it tugged at his soul even as he watched. Vaguely, he was aware of a gnawing horror. When one paints a vision, a world, he gives away a part of himself. In a way, the art is a reflection of innermost self. But this, Ivan knew, was not one such. It had nothing to do with him. “Zis is no’ right,” he said aloud.
Behind him, a voice suddenly answered: “But it is beautiful nonetheless.”
Ivan whirled, heart pounding. Standing there was a tall man, richly dressed in black velvet. Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: of dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee. The man reached out a hand. "And so are you," he finished, gently cupping the surprised artist's chin. Before he could do anything but gape, the man raised an ebony cane and smashed it across Ivan’s face.
The force of the blow sent Ivan reeling, spinning him backward and onto the painting. Yet he felt no resistance, nothing stopped him. The man watched, impassive, but silently regretful as Ivan began screaming. The painting sucked and tore at him; pulling him in. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped and Ivan was gone. The painting remained, gleaming now with a polished coat.
The man stepped forward silently. He studied the painting for a moment, as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze. “Your blood is your cage. My collection is mine,” he said ritually, as he’d done, for the past hundred years. “And you are the last, the final piece.”
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