hkkun279

[hkkun279]

The Modern Artist

The figure intrigued me. I focused on every defining feature that belongs to it to demand its residence to a gray sheet of paper. Running my pencil smoothly across the page, I hoped to capture the complexity of the figure: the polished edges contrasting its fluent curves like the tip of the nose of a red fox to its delicate tail. 

It was a clay figure of a woman, standing promptly on a dark oak table that seemed worn from decades of service. I was in my art class, sitting amongst my fellow friends who complimented me every time my pencil made contact. It was then, back in third grade, when I first discovered the beauty of art in its simplicity. I’ve always had a knack for art, drawing everyday to create artworks that brought others to shame. While there were a few artistic geniuses in the class, none could compare to the fluidity and aesthetics of my designs. Perhaps I was gifted with this power by God or by the improbable luck that landed in my favor at birth. No matter the case, I returned my attention back to my sketch, shading in the shadows, which hid from the morning light that seeped through the cracks of the windows. 

As I continued to compose my masterpiece, a warm presence lingered behind me–or above me? A shadow loomed over my work of art and I heard a voice, “Wow! That’s amazing!” It was my art teacher, Mrs. Ferguson, who at every turn encouraged me to pursue art. “With talent like yours, will you become an artist?” She said, looking deep into my eyes, as if to search for a passion to set aflame.

I thought for a bit, or maybe not at all, and said, “One day.” 

⋯

“Georges, y’are looking pale. ‘Re you nearly finished?” A voice echoed from across the studio. I looked up from the canvas to meet the cold stare of Rosalie Bridges, a woman I had hired to pose for my painting. The sun was setting and the darkening evening light permeated through the curtains to reside on her figure. Standing on the platform, she posed a prayer with both hands held close to her breasts. It seemed that my mind had wandered off again to some distant past–back when life was so transparent. I am a full-time artist now–as embarrassing it is to admit–and I am in my studio, working on my new painting that would hopefully demand enough compensation for next month’s rent. Now, only my passion for art drives me forward to continue this work despite having an intruding fear of being hurled into the streets. With a lack of funds, I sometimes had to obtain my equipment through unconventional means.

“Yes, it’s almost done,” I replied. With the stroke of my brush, I injected life into the painting, giving it the justified beauty that matches the woman standing before me. Draining her colors to fuel my craft, I laid beautiful details across the painting by animating the fragility of colors. I dipped my brush in the pallet of my hands–adding a little red here and a little red there to highlight the blissful sun. Then, it was finished. I gripped the arms of the easel that controlled my masterpiece and turned it towards her. She gave me a confused look, then it twisted into a look of horror. “Is that… blood?!"