Rachel Fast - 10 February 2025
The painting
The painting was hung with an ornate gold frame, fitted just so. Its house was one of darkness and dust, kept tenderly from the wear of unsuitable eyes. It was put there years ago. There was never really a question: it would not be displayed or sold or barred away by rope. The painting was made to sit waiting, drumming its fingers against its swirling canvas.
Every once in a while the painting would hear someone pass outside. Sauntering steps would pass it by, and the painting would ache to be beheld and loved. It craved wandering eyes and the gap between lips that comes with awe. The steps always faded.
For over fifteen years the painting waited, and only once did someone get close in those years. One chilly January evening, someone tried the handle. They rattled and tugged, and the painting stretched tall and proud, ready to be seen. They pushed and pulled and even kicked. Breath held, the painting wondered what its colours might be in the light. Perhaps vibrant and piercing? Even muted and gentle would do. The rattling filtered in between these ponderings, urging them forward. Perhaps each colour was warm and inviting, perfect for this winter night.
Then it was quiet. Then the footsteps receded into nothing.
The painting sat, isolated once more, tucking its loneliness into the seams of the canvas and the space between each layer of paint.
When the painting had almost reached a second decade in that shaded room, it had decided its colours were not its concern. It thought about the hands that made it and the hours it took. It stopped wanting to be ogled and it did not want to be sold. Until a second hand tried the doorknob. The painting was overcome with such disbelief that it tried to fade into the walls, fearful that all its work would be undone. Perhaps eyes wear art down. Colours might be brighter in the dark, after all. The handle turned gently side to side as the stranger willed it to open. The tenderness of their touch reminded the painting of each stroke of the brush, and instead of forcing out its beauty, it hung on its hook as it always did, trying only to be what it was.
There was a wailing creak as the door swung open. Soft steps carried a body into its home, someone to breathe life into the ancient air. Dim light filled the room, cascading over the mingling colours on the canvas. Colours. Lots of them. Yellows and blues and pinks. The painting saw itself before it could look at the person drawing near. It was beautiful. Each stroke was at once intentional and a wonderful accident. Something that nature never meant to be but that wanted to be natural. The paint buried deeper into the fine weave than it ever had, and only then did the painting behold the viewer. It felt its newfound vulnerability as the person stood still, eyes narrow and critical. They took a step. One step more. No. This is not what it is to be admired. One more. The painting felt ready to rip at the seams, although it guessed it might not have to. A final step. The person curled their fingers around the intricate frame and tugged, freeing the painting from its tarnished hook. Their eyes didn’t wear it down but their fingers might. The painting cried, ripped from the wall’s arms, soft light shifting as it was pulled through dusty space. Into the frigid wind it was carried, haphazardly tucked under an unfamiliar arm.
The painting felt the elements claim its newborn beauty, as the senses of its master rattled its heart. Greedy eyes and coarse skin stole through the night leaving a trail of frosty footprints and hues of yellow, blue and pink in the fresh snowfall behind them. Fresh flakes blew into the empty room, mingling with dust. An empty hook remained on the wall, cast in dim light.