The Artist

THE ARTIST Though the moon was full, the city seemed darker and quieter than usual that night. The man stood by the curb in the faint light of a flickering street lamp. It was hard to see his eyes through the shadow cast by his fedora hat but every once in a while it was possible to make out the one or two lines beginning to appear on his face. He pulled his hat down upon his brow, turned his collar up to ward off the night chill and then reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lit one with a wooden match. He liked wooden matches because of the way they felt between his fingers and the sound and smell of them when struck. The aroma of the freshly lit match was still in the air as he took his first drag from the cigarette. Though he knew he should quit, he was not overly worried because he rarely smoked in the daylight hours. This was his city, he thought, and a man should take every step he walks as though he owns it. His thoughts went to the woman sleeping in his bed on the fourth floor of the old apartment building behind him. He never tried to own her and he wondered what she saw in him that attracted her to him. Knowing his own shortcomings, he felt a little foolish at times for allowing her to come into his life. So many times he had wanted to tell her his feelings but words had always failed him. He wasn't sure that she truly understood him and he knew that he was to blame. He had kept secrets from her, about himself, his past and even his work. About his work, he knew, that he could never tell her. She thought that he was just an artist. The words from an obscure song that he had once heard came to him. "If he reveals his hopes, will she unveil her fears?
Or will the dreams they share go undeclared, and just dry up and blow away?" It was then that the idea hit him. He threw his cigarette into the gutter, walked up the steps to the front door of the apartment building and took the old freight elevator to the fourth floor. There was no fumbling for the key because it was ready in his hand to go into the lock by the time he reached the door of his flat. That was another one of his quirks. He didn't like to be caught in the hallways while occupied looking for a key. You never know what someone will try in a dark corridor, and he didn't like to give too much warning to whoever may be waiting for him inside. The door showed the signs of previous forced entry around the lock, which had been repaired but that wasn't unusual in his neighborhood. He entered and closed the door leaving the lights off. Inside, it was moderately spacious. It was an artists loft with high ceilings and there were canvases and paintings in various places around the room. The woman was sleeping peacefully on a bed by a large curtainless window bathed in the light from the moon. He knew that she would not wake. She was lying there naked but covered almost to the waist with the sheets and his favorite parts of her were still in view. The small of her waist and the two dimples above her buttocks. She looked beautiful he thought. She looked content. Usually at times like this he would sit by her with a cigarette and watch her sleep before slipping into bed beside her, but this night would be different. He took off his hat and coat and hung them on the coat rack by the door and then disrobed to the waist. His muscles were long and sinewy and without any identifying tattoos or markings. Another requirement of his work. After lighting several large candles he placed them around her and stood back to watch the light from them dance with the light from the moon, across her motionless body. It was perfect! He donned a worn and loose fitting white shirt with dried paint on it and set a large empty canvas on an easel and prepared it for paint. Tonight, he would paint the words he could not say to her. And then, as though his soul had so sweetly returned to him from a long absence, he began to paint, quickly and quietly. He felt a soothing vibration throughout his body from the top of his head down to his toes and out to his finger tips. He was in tune and one with his brush and his canvas and nothing could break his concentration. Soon, tears welled up in his eyes and he began to weep as he worked. His tears fell down into the paint on his pallet as he mixed the hues and shades of colour that even he had not seen before. His canvas became a work of tears and paint, from his soul. And with every sable brush stroke and hue, he breathed life into his canvas monolog. She awoke late, to an empty room. The candles had burned out and only the wax stumps were left. He had already been and gone but she sensed his presence still somewhere in the room. She lay there with the sun shining on her pillow, missing the times when she awoke next to him and wondered why it was that he didn't seem to see the little things about himself that endeared him to her. When she arose she went to discover why she still felt his presence and found the painting that he had left for her. It was the most beautiful expression of art that she had ever seen, and she knew exactly what it meant. It was so much more than words could say. She knew why she loved him

By David Thoresen