Moving Art

 

Did I just do that?

Volodya did not know he was capable of what he had done. All he could hear was his heavy breathing, roaring in his own ears as he desperately tried to catch his breath. His loud panting felt deafening to him and his chest hurt. He held his breath to hear himself think but he could only hold it for a few seconds. The sound of breathing came crashing back with a sharp pain in his chest. His body, which was vibrating in excitement, started to calm down. He looked down towards his right hand and saw a blood drenched knife.

Why do I have that?

He quickly hid the knife under his jacket, as if trying to hide it from himself more than from others. He looked down on the body lying near his feet. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the puddle of red that kept expanding. A red canvas that grew glorious with every inch the blood travelled away from the lifeless body it came from.

Is it okay to be moved by such art?

When the blood has flown out as much as its heart desires, and the picture before him becomes frozen in time, it will truly tell the story of its inception. For what is a painting, or any art for that matter, but a story waiting to be read by someone willing to throw themselves into its world. Volodya felt the urge to wait for the painting at his feet to be completed. The artist that is this situation will probably take a few more minutes to put the final touches.

How long can one man’s guts spew out blood?

He tried to snap out of it by shaking his head. He looked around worriedly but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A soul is exiting this world and the world plays no music to send it off. The world does what it does best; it doesn’t care. He felt that he had just painted on a canvas that wasn’t meant to be painted on. He paused his thoughts to understand how he feels about what he had done. He, without a doubt, felt intense fear. He also felt, deep in the long untouched parts of his heart, that he liked what he had done.

Are fear and excitement really that different?

Volodya decided that nothing could be done now and that he should get on with his life. He was on his way to his workshop when this happened. He walked away.

---

When was the last time it rained?

Volodya looked at the sky above the building his workshop was in. His gaze fell down to the door as he walked towards it. The building looked the same from outside as well as inside even after what felt like such a monumental event in his life. The world really doesn’t care, he confirmed in his mind.

Why do I feel like I care?

As he brought his mind back to himself, he realized that he was still shaking uncontrollably and that he was taking very irregular steps as he walked. He paused near the parking to slow his breathing and calm his body down. He looked around to see if anyone noticed. No one did. He was living this unusual day’s story alone inside his own little universe, untouched by outside impurities. He felt a tear escape from his left eye and stream down his face.

Am I moved to tears by this?

He did not wipe his tear off and was on his way again. He walked to the lift and pressed the button. A boy, no older than ten appeared beside him, also waiting for the lift. Volodya felt a surge of anxiety creep out from his stomach and spread all over his body. He thanked his luck that the landlord hadn’t fixed the lighting and the place was darker than it usually was. He hoped his condition wasn’t clearly visible enough to cause any serious problems. The waves of anxiety he was feeling suddenly turned to outright dread when he took a look at his hands again. The splatters of blood reached all the way up to his elbows. No amount of bad lighting could ever hide what his hands had done not very long ago. Wide-eyed with obvious terror, he slowly moved his gaze from his hands towards where the boy was. To his astonishment, the boy was not there anymore. He was relieved.

Am I imagining things?

After what felt like an excruciating eternity, the lift finally arrived and the doors opened. He looked towards his feet to watch his step. The light inside the elevator accentuated the mad art on his shirt. It looked the same as his hands; a reminder of what had happened under the bridge. He looked up towards the ceiling as if the proof will go away as soon as he looks away from it. His head started spinning. He put a hand on the wall to keep balance, pressing a red stain onto it. The lift door opened at his floor and he pushed himself outside. His body was cooling down now and his bruises started to really hurt. He dragged his feet to the door of his workshop.

Home sweet home.

---

He carried himself towards his chair. Instead of taking a seat on it, he took off his jacket and threw it on it. It lands very well, which impressed Volodya. He looked at it for a few seconds as if waiting for his jacket to somehow entertain him again. Nothing happened.

After all these events and all this inspiration, he decided that the logical thing to do was to promptly create good art. The only way to convert all the overwhelming emotions he was facing into something useful was to turn all this turmoil inside him into a good painting. He was reminded of Caravaggio’s story. Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio killed, seemingly without proper remorse and then went on to paint some of Volodya’s favorite paintings. He imagined himself fleeing the streets of Rome for Naples and dreaming up his next painting along the way. This is an amazing opportunity for him to create the best painting of his life. Something that will turn his story from a tale of an ordinary painter to that of a true legend.

Am I about to create my masterpiece?

He had his eyes closed in this imagination exercise. The film he was watching on the back of his eyelids, of him as Caravaggio on an artistic journey, started to turn dark. The scene grew darker and darker until all he could see was pitch black. Volodya opened his eyes and tried to relax. It was like he had just woken up from a nightmare and was trying to make sense of where he was.

He washed the blood off of himself using a bucket of water in a corner. He looked in the mirror to see what a modern day Caravaggio looks like. His disheveled appearance was tired and bruised.

Volodya paced around his workshop, trying to jumpstart the creative side of his mind. His mind kept going back to the puddle of red he saw under the bridge. He kept wondering if he should have tried to hide the body. For some reason, this thought hadn’t bothered him when he was there. He could have carried it out of sight, maybe even thrown it into the river or something. He convinced himself that it would have been a waste of time. After all, he wasn’t very good at being exceptionally clever or sneaky. In Volodya’s case, what you saw was what you got. And what you got was a clumsy guy that couldn’t even take quiet footsteps.

Volodya stopped at a table in the room he was in. The table had a vase of almost dead red roses and some walnuts on it. The dying red of the roses reminded him of the blood again. He averted his eyes in a futile attempt to get the image out of his mind. He took a walnut and smashed it open with a hammer. He felt its insides and smelt it. The insides of a walnut looked like a brain. He soon caught himself wondering if he should have smashed the victim’s head in with a hammer instead of stabbing him. That would have made interesting art.

What is wrong with me?

He shook his head to somehow throw these thoughts out of his head. It didn’t work. He picked the vase and threw it on the other side of the room in frustration. The sound of the vase smashing against the wall and breaking into pieces weirdly comforted him.

It was about time he got started with his masterpiece. He sat in front of his easel and shifted his hips to get comfortable. He looked at the canvas for a few minutes trying to first paint the picture with his mind. He flipped the canvas from vertical to horizontal and reaches for his brush. There’s a knock on the door and Volodya presses the brush against the canvas.

---

Volodya was sitting in a field, throwing inspiration on the canvas through paint. He was surrounded by nature and its wonders. Sitting among trees, with plants under his feet. He looked at the silent painting in front of him, which was neither alive nor dead. It told a story without uttering a single word. One could tell it anything without any hesitation, but it will not respond. In its silent inanimate state, it still provokes thoughts and feelings. Volodya marveled at how eternal the painting’s beauty seemed even though it was so cold towards the world and the passage of time.

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral

He felt very different from how he felt in his workshop. He looked fresh, felt cheerful and was, without a doubt, motivated. He took a cigarette out and tapped it while looking at his work in progress. He lit it up and took a deep puff, kept the smoke in for a while and let it out slowly. The painting wasn’t complete but the end product wasn’t too many stokes away. He took another slow puff and continued.

The moment his brush left the canvas after the last stroke, his body relaxed. The highly focused expression on his face turned into a smiling one and he could feel tears starting to stream down his face. Wiping his face, he embarrassingly looks around if anyone was looking. He was relieved to know that no one was. He let the tears flow freely. He was thoroughly enjoying this feeling. He threw a spare shirt on the painting as if its beauty would run out if he kept the image he had produced out in the open. He got up from the easel, holding the painting close to himself. He sat by the lake while having his painting in an intimate embrace. He lit another cigarette.

---

He brings the cigarette towards his face for another puff and is shocked to see that his hand is covered in blood. He quickly puts the canvas on the ground and removes his shirt from it. To his astonishment, the canvas was blank white. He took a few steps back while his heart beat like a drum. He felt something on the side of his pants. He slowly reached into his pocket to see what it was. His nervous confusion turned into horror when he pulled out a knife from his right pocket.

Why do I have that?

It was the canvas, he decided. It wanted to be painted like the painting he painted under the bridge. As if by instinct, he stabbed the canvas and ran it across its right side just as he did with the man he murdered that day. Blood began to flow out and form a puddle.

Did I just do that?

He caught himself admiring the growing puddle of red again. Volodya felt like he was going to go insane. He loosened the grip on his knife and let it fall to the ground. He pulled his hair and let out a scream of agony. He wanted to end it all. He put the shirt back on the painting and ran towards the lake. He jumped in and started swimming. When he reached a deep enough part, he let himself go, gradually sinking into the water. He imagined losing his life and leaving an unignorable legacy behind. People would be awestruck when they saw his masterpiece and they would remember him as the modern Caravaggio.

What's the mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

Volodya stopped sinking after a bit and the lake started to push him back up. The lake claimed that he was trying to create a masterpiece and leaving it behind without paying the proper price for it. He had to pay for the blood he painted with just as he had to pay for the paints he painted his other paintings with. He had to pay for the blood with something other than money. He had to pay with his freedom. He could not free himself with death until the dues were clear. Volodya clumsily climbs out of the water, trembling with fear. He couldn’t make sense of what he had gotten himself into.

Is it okay to be moved by such art?

---

He desperately picked his wet and tired body up and ran back to where he had dropped the painting. He dropped to his knees near it and started punching it. He got up and stomped as hard as he could on it. Dissatisfied with the result of his beatings, he put a lighter to the battered canvas. He watched it catch fire as he silently prayed to be exempted from the heavy payment he had to incur for the blood.

When he was sure that it was properly on fire, he ran in the other direction. The lake scared him now. He didn’t want to go anywhere near it.

Am I free now?

He ran past the easel and started undressing. He wanted to be free from all kinds of confines. He took off his shirt, his pants, his underwear, his boots, all while running, tripping, getting up and running again. He saw the sun setting in front of him. He tried to reach out to it with his hand while running towards it. The sun was almost free from its restriction of providing light to the world. Volodya wanted to be free with it.

Volodya woke up to a loud knocking sound. Someone was knocking hard at his door and telling him to open up. He was on his chair in his workshop.

Was I dreaming?

He could see the police lights blinking from his window. He got up from his chair and stretched his bruised body. Ignoring the knocks that kept getting louder, he walked to his window. He saw policemen and a boy outside the building. The boy was pointing towards his workshop. Volodya realized he was the same boy he saw near the lift that had weirdly disappeared. So, he wasn’t imagining things. There really was a boy there.

It’s time to pay with my freedom.

He looked at the knife on his table and thought about ending his life but came to the conclusion that he wanted to paint more. The art stops when he stops breathing. He put the knife in his right pocket and walked to his door.

You never know when you’d want to create a masterpiece again.

The End