The Masterpiece

Exhibit #28 – ‘The Third Toe’

Pierre stared indifferently at the painting. Long skinny arms folded across his chest.

“Revolting!” he said.

Standing next to him was Vincent in a similar pose, his eyelids half closed with boredom. “Ghastly,” he declared.

“Unimaginative filth,” Pierre added to his initial comment.

“Nauseatingly vile garbage,” Vincent added to his.

Pierre tilted his head back slightly so he looked down his considerable nose at the offending painting. Vincent sighed loudly in displeasure, an announcement of his opinion to anyone in earshot. They both stared at the painting in silence for some time in apparent boredom and disgust.

Pierre slowly unfolded one arm and raised his bony fingers to his chin. Shortly after, Vincent did the same with his short plump fingers. They both stroked their matching goatees thoughtfully.

“I love it,” Pierre said conspiringly.

Vincent eyes were transfixed by the painting. “So do I,” he breathed. They continued on down the hall towards the masterpiece.

* * *

The artist of the masterpiece stood with folded arms in front of a stark white canvas. The tools of his trade were scattered all around, declaring that a considerable amount of work had recently been done.

Tubes of paint in a range of colors were scattered over a wooden workbench, squeezed and twisted in deformed shapes. Even more tubes filled a large garbage bin, rolled and flattened to force out every drop. Rows of glass jars filled with multi-colored water soaked paintbrushes of all sizes.

The artist’s palette lay discarded on the bench, with paint mixed and swirled into every shade of blue. At his feet a roller rested in a bucket of white paint.

He stared at the white canvas with a frown. The canvas sat smugly on its easel and stared back. Go ahead and try again, it challenged, I’ll never be a work of art, you haven’t got it in you old man!

The artist ignored the comments and continued to stare impassively at the canvas.

What are you waiting for, the canvas jeered, ‘inspiration’?

An arm untangled itself from across his burly chest and raised paint stained fingers to his long grey beard. He stroked it thoughtfully.

I’ll be nothing but a mediocre still life, and you call yourself an artist!

With unexpected agility a multicolored hand snatched up the discarded palette, a paintbrush seemed to leap into the other. If he didn’t know better the artist would have sworn the canvas sitting on its easel jumped slightly in fright.

A flash of blue attacked the white.

* * *

Exhibit #29 – ‘Eye of the Beholder’

Pierre and Vincent stood side by side examining a blank wall.

“Such creativity!” exclaimed Pierre, spreading his bony fingers in a nondescript gesture.

“A brave and risky form,” Vincent said, nodding his head enthusiastically.

Pierre placed his hands on his narrow hips and stepped back to better appreciate the piece. Vincent jiggled his glasses around on his little button nose.

“I wonder if it’s for sale?” he asked.

“I’m sure you couldn’t afford it,” Pierre replied.

They turned with reluctance and walked onwards towards the masterpiece.

Shortly after, two men in overalls arrived carrying exhibit #29, which had been removed briefly to be cleaned. The gallery curator trailed alongside them nervously fussing about the painting.

“Careful!” he squealed as they raised it up against the wall. When it hung safely back in place he shooed the men off down the hall, fretting about the dirty footprints they left on the marble floor.

* * *

The artist whistled tunelessly as he worked. Broad shoulders bent over the large white canvas that was slowly turning blue.

I look like crap, the canvas declared.

The artist stepped back to examine his work. He absently twirled his brush around the colors on the palette, yellow mixed in with blue. He poised the green brush between his fingers as he smiled at the canvas.

You’re wasting your time.

He plunged forward. What sounded like a faint sigh emitted from the canvas.

* * *

Exhibit #30 – ‘Moonstruck’

A barn was burning down. Long strokes of flame licked up the wooden structure and brushed through the dry bales of hay within. Small dots of orange embers sailed off into the night sky, mingling with the silver stars.

A cow was leaping over the barn, its tail on fire.

“It says a lot about current political issues,” Vincent said, stroking his beard.

Pierre nodded in agreement. “It’s very now.”

A teenager walked between them and the painting they were appreciating. Two glares stalked him down the hall – they were capable of melting the veneer off an imitation Warhol. A group of twelve more teens walked by, followed by a startled looking teacher with long grey hair (it was blond when she arrived).

The class had just viewed the masterpiece. What entered the gallery as unruly restless teenagers left as a quiet group of polite adolescents walking astutely down the street and climbed into the school bus in an orderly fashion; the back seat was left vacant.

A troublesome student called Cruz sat in the front of the bus for the trip back. His flick knife and packet of cigarettes lay amongst discarded brochures, tissues and polystyrene cups at the bottom of one of the gallery’s rubbish bins. The grinning skull across the front of his t-shirt looked slightly unsettled.

After seeing the masterpiece Cruz decided against getting the tattoo he’d been considering - of a scorpion across his back. He went on to finish school with top marks, and got a place in a prestigious college. He taught life sentence prisoners how to read and write. He climbed Mount Everest. He lived in India for ten years running a health clinic for the poor. He wrote a novel. He rescued a woman from drowning in the Ganges. He married said woman. He and his wife adopted three orphaned children from Sudan. He moved to England and set up a charity organization to help clear landmines in Vietnam. He volunteered in his retirement to take high school students on excursions through art galleries, museums and botanical gardens. He died at age eighty nine, after a long and happy life…

Pierre and Vincent glared with disdain at the passing students. ‘Art galleries are for art appreciators,’ they thought in unison, ‘not riffraff!’ Then they turned and continued towards the masterpiece.

* * *

A six foot wave pounded into the cliff and bounced back in an explosion of foam. Winds hurtling wildly in all directions spun the foam up the cliff face and sprayed it into the air.

Atop the cliff on a small wooden stool sat the artist. Palette perched in one hand, holding greens, whites and browns swirled into a rippled hue. The brush danced around the canvas with the other hand.

I’m cold, the canvas complained.

The paint continued to pound against it like the waves on the cliff, specks spraying back against the artist’s shirt and beard. The canvas shook slightly from the heavy crashing of the surf below.

The cap of a red paint tube popped open as the sun dropped over the horizon, staining the sky.

* * *

Exhibit #31 – ‘Expectation’

Click!

The tourist let the camera drop. It snapped up on its strap and bounced against his chest. A cartoon girl with a gigantic smile posed across his t-shirt, sparkling Japanese lettering spelled out: “Konnichi wa!”

“That is the epitome of bad taste, sir!” Pierre said indicating the camera.

The tourist looked at Pierre’s severe expression then down at the camera. Its roll of film held twenty-three shots, one left.

“You want I clicky clicky?” he asked brandishing the camera.

The first shot on the reel was an ocean of white fluffy clouds framed by an airplane window. The second photo was a shot of his girlfriend posing next to a luggage carousel. The third was the outside of a yellow cab, the fourth an irritated taxi driver. The fifth through eighth seemed to be the inside of a hotel. The ninth, tenth and eleventh pictured a walk down the busy streets. Then a blurry shot of the art gallery entrance. The pictures from then on were of the exhibits, with intermittent shots of his girlfriends smiling face.

He raised the camera and focused in on the twenty fourth shot; a strange tall man waving his hands in protest and mouthing in English, “No, I don’t want you to take my photo!” (Whatever that means.)

Click!

The roll of film whirred loudly as it wound back to the start. The tourist and his girlfriend smiled and continued down the hall.

Three months later, in a darkroom in Japan, a row of twenty four photos hung pegged to a string. The glossy paper dripped slowly into trays and the images crisped and sharpened.

All of the photos came out quite well, except for the one of exhibit #33. The camera had been perfectly focused, and the painting had excellent lighting. Disappointment washed over the tourist and his girlfriend as they flicked through the photos. The photo of the painting they had particularly liked turned out completely blank.

* * *

For once the canvas was not complaining. A nude woman reclined behind it, the dim light of the studio deeply shading the curves of her figure.

The artist dabbed carefully at some pink paint and squinted past the canvas at the posing woman.

He added some minute detail with a fine brush. A low pitched almost inaudible hum came from the canvas. The paint too was acting strangely. It almost appeared to be sweating.

* * *

Exhibit #32 – ‘Woman Unclothed’

Pierre and Vincent stared at the painting in silence. They stroked their beards slowly in unison with remote expressions. After quite an amount of time they managed to turn and walked towards the masterpiece.

* * *

The masterpiece was complete. Exhausted on the wooden floor lay the artist, brush still poised between limp fingers, a shaft of morning light resting across his face. The canvas stood glaring over him as his eyes fluttered open and he slowly climbed to his feet. They both stared at one another. The artist stroked his beard in thought.

Ok, I’m not bad.

The morning light shifted to the broad face of the canvas, sunlight sparkled off the shiny paint.

Not great, but not bad.

Green tinged waves curled in on themselves along the surface of a turbulent ocean, stretching deep into the painting. Far away where the ocean dipped behind the horizon, the water was calm and still, deep blue surface shimmered like a mirror.

This scene lay far beyond an explosion of white. Angry sprays of water and foam hung in the air, frozen above a jagged cliff.

I like what you did with the woman.

Draped across the ledge was a nude woman, looking to the horizon. The sinking sun shaded the sky and her body with red.

Ok I’ll admit it, I’m pretty damn good!

The artist reached for a handle. “I’m not happy with you,” he said conclusively. The roller dribbled thick white paint as he raised it from its bucket.

* * *

Exhibit #33 – ‘The Masterpiece’

Footprints echoed down the long room as Pierre and Vincent stepped inside. The room was clothed in an atmospheric darkness, not from a lack of lights; all ten of the bright spotlights angled in at one precise point; the painting on the wall.

Pierre and Vincent stared across the expanse, and stepped cautiously forward, a crisscross of light beams sliced through the darkness above them.

From behind a mesh of invisible laser beams, the painting watched the two figures slowly approach out of the crowd of blinding lights. A tall, skinny one and a short fat one, both with eyes wide open, not yet seeing what they were seeing.

Vincent stopped three meters short of the painting. He looked down at the rope barrier stretched across his protruding stomach, then back up at the masterpiece.

“It’s…” Pierre began.

Vincent nodded vaguely. “Yes,” he agreed, dry mouthed.

They stood in silence for a long time, hands caught awkwardly between reaching for their beards and folding across their chests.

* * *

The artist stood before the blank canvas, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. The paint roller lay discarded on the floor.

What did you go and do that for? The canvas asked, with fresh white paint still damp across its face. The only answer was the sound of footsteps pacing the studio's wooden floorboards. The artist was lost in thought.

I was… really good this time.

Red paint squeezed onto the palette and a brush twirled it round angrily. The artist glared at the blank canvas.

There’s half a dozen paintings buried in me, the canvas hissed, give up already!

A drop of black squirted onto the red and spun round and round, darkening.

I’ll never be anything! You’ll never be anything!

The red whirlpool spun frantically.

Call yourself an artist?

The palette slammed down on the table and all the paints and jars jumped. A bottle of paint thinner tipped and rolled to the edge, plunging down to the floor and exploding at the feet of the easel.

Ha! Look what you did now.

The puddle spread across the floor. The artist stepped to the side as it gathered around his sandals, he made the mistake of leaning against the table. A crack and the scrape of sliding jars as the tabletop upended, throwing all atop it onto the floor.

Ha! The canvas gloated.

A huge clatter as jars smashed. Tubes of paint rolled through the murky puddle that was still spreading. A big tin of white paint rolled across the floor and slammed into one of the legs of the aisle. With a jolt, the easel tilted and the canvas fell forward, agonizingly slow. The paint thinner puddle was bubbling and rippling below.

Ahhhhh!

The artist lay on his back, red paint all over his face. He slowly elbowed himself up, and stepped through the multicolored mess on the floor. His sandaled feet pushed through broken glass, brushes and half squeezed tubes of paint. A faint groan emitted from the face down canvas.

He gently lifted it from the floor and held it out before him. The layers of paint were still peeling and bubbling. The nude woman appeared for an instant then melted into a pink and blue shape. The wild ocean swirled, eddied and crashed against the cliffs once again. The layers rose to the surface then sunk back into the background, melded together then fell apart.

Minutes passed before the shifting face of the canvas settled. The paint formed a thin crust and got to work drying. The artist gasped at the final sight and snapped a paint speckled hand to his lips. He stared in awe at the masterpiece.

* * *

Pierre stood cross-armed in front of the painting. Vincent raised a hesitant hand and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

Pierre was speechless.

Vincent concurred.

They stared at the painting for some time. Then Vincent left his beard alone and turned to Pierre.

“You want to go see a movie?”

Pierre’s face split into a smile. “Sure,” he said.

The gallery was left with the echo of their footsteps as they walked down hall.

* * *

Stop looking at me!