Drawing a Blank

Drawing a blank; the immensity of the 24”X36” watercolor paper overwhelmed her today… brush poised she sat and waited for inspiration. What were the muses on vacation? Did they go south to soak up some rays instead of staying to encourage her brush? The paint dripped to the floor in slow motion… splat, splat, splat equaling the sound of the rain dripping from the eves. The grey and gloom seemed to permeate her thoughts; chilling her to the bone; and making movement impossible. How long had she sat like this before the white paper? She never kept a clock in her painting room or wore a watch. Time meant little to her but still she wondered. Thoughts traversed her mind but none stuck; none struck the nerve to send messages to her arm - to her hand to make the brush glide across the paper. The glare from the paper reflected off the windows, the water jars, her glasses. The white seemed to saturate everything around her, silence and whiteness, whiteness and silence. Time stood still. Her arm didn’t ache; it just hung in the air above the page.

The last drip descended to the floor to join the others flattened upon impact. Splattered against the white linoleum, the perfectly round epicenter of each dot was surrounded by an aurora of fine spatters. The past drips overlapped, the color lessened in intensity as they dried on the floor. Still she let her thoughts rush; she was in no hurry. She learned to wait patiently for her inspiration. Would it come? Did it matter? No phone to jangle and break the moment. The music of the rain on the roof was absorbed into the movement of her thoughts. She waited, poised, the brush dry; the paper blank. The process of creating put on hold; she closed her eyes while she stilled her breath even more; no longer counting to keep the rhythm of in and out in balance. Everything physical was ready: the paper, the brush, the easel at the correct angle, the painter’s chair the proper distance from the paper; the rinse jars and palette were within easy reach; her mind at peace with the constant bombardment of needless thought but still no direction of movement. No projected line on the paper to follow with quick sure movements.

Her husband rarely entered the studio if the door was closed. He deferred to his wife’s need to be closeted away while painting. He busied himself in the kitchen; his relaxation after his work day filled with hustle/bustle was to prepare their evening meal. The sound of his knife to cutting block matched the sound of the rain on the sky light. He didn’t notice the lack of sound or movement from the studio; the absence of lunch dishes set by the sink or lack of light beneath the door. Vivaldi filled his background as the rice cooker steamed a steady plume to the ceiling. The vegetables were all prepared to stir fry as the rice cooker flipped to warm. Still no acknowledgement of his presence from the studio, he was sure the smell of spices would seep into her inner sanctum drawing his wife out to eat. The wok oil crackled as vegetables hit the pan; within minutes the meal was completed. He was relaxed as he artfully arranged the food on the porcelain plates, chopsticks sat on their rests and sparkling water was slightly bubbling in their long stem water glasses.

He listened at her door; slowly he opened the door a crack; puzzled by the relative darkness of the room, he called her name in a whisper. Widening the gap in the door, he saw his wife engulfed in the glow from the lamp directed at a blank piece of paper. Her back was toward him but the light bounced off the page, reflected off the window turned mirror in the evening darkness. Frozen in time and space, on the floor at her feet her brush lay rigid and dry while she sat perfectly still. Panic rose in him. Calling her name softly, he eased himself into the studio. Quietly he approached his illuminated wife. Reaching out he touched her cheek with his finger tips; brushing along her chin, his receptors felt nothing but cold immobile mask. Looking into her face, he noted a glowing peacefulness, eyes wide open but without fear looked thru him to the page with a single brush stroke. Dry paint trailed into a rough heart shape. Before the brush had fallen, she had managed to create her last message to him.

Not disturbing a thing, he lifted a chair form the corner to sit in the quiet studio and admire the rough heart. Time to make calls later; he silently breathed in the love.


3/11/2001

David the Perfect

One more glance around the room revealed candles, lighter, Waterford champagne glasses placed next to the chilling Dom Perignon as the soft firelight danced across the teakwood floors and vaulted ceiling. The Apple wood scent filling the room into the far corners was subtle sweetness. All was perfect. Fluffing the pillows and arranging the objects ‘de art one more time, he admired his romantic creation, “Better do one more sweep.”
Controlled perfection radiated from each vista he viewed. “Well that’s as good as it gets.” He smugly remarked as he glimpsed the last room.
More than picture perfect each immaculate scene was right out of Architectural Digest. The perfection of a lifeless life, a still life frozen in time before the flowers wilt or fruit begins to decay, perfect enough to make your skin crawl, a truly sick perfect.
One more trip to the bathroom to release the building tension, he gazed upon his impeccable reflection in the wall to ceiling mirrors. Snappily dressed for causal comfort, he oozed Armani confidence. Checking his teeth, he flossed imaginary gunk from his smile. The ticking Louie the 14th mantle clock kept his mind in tune with the time. Its sound resonated with his heartbeat.
“She’s late... again.” He smoothed back his hair, brushed off his broad shoulders. “Late again, even with that Rolli… She could at least look at it.”
The fire burnt low, the chill was off the champagne as he sat utterly still staring at the mahogany door. The pillows, still perfectly fluffed, remained ready but the ramrod straight figure couldn’t relax. The pristine mood had turned sullen. The twisted shadows loomed from the corners to darken his mood even more. The small ring box sat with its hinged lid open displaying a 40 carat diamond surrounded by emerald baguettes.
He would never forgive her for this. His mind that was always locked with his own importance became narrower by her exploit. Images filled his mind of her death which would be the only excuse that he would accept for her rude behavior. Maybe the car broke down, but the Mercedes XL was brand new and the cell phone the best there was on the market. Maybe there was a car accident; after all she was very unfocused. Image after image trudged through his mind all night long. The morning light found him red eyed from lack of sleep and alone.
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The Mercedes hummed along headed for Vancouver. The wind whistled through the skies on the roof rack, steam rose from the Hilton’s breakfast bar coffee and the suitcases settled in the trunk from the hasty packing. The early morning light touched her diamond wedding band sending rainbows around the interior. Who would have thought she’d get hitched in a Vegas wedding chapel? Cruising along, she pictured David, the Perfect, sitting still waiting for her. He was so predictable and she had gotten what she needed from him: new Mercedes, new designer cloths, new ski instructor. David had insisted upon private lessons the only perfect way to learn how to ski. Private lessons - very private lessons that lead to this very private quick wedding and honeymoon. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends after all they had told her to dump David.
Jean Paul offered her so much more than David ever could. Even with all David’s money, especially his money, he could never buy the imperfection of love. Reaching across the seat she held her new husband’s hand as the impacted deer smashed through the windshield.
The police investigation team noted the lack of skid marks as the wrecker pulled the totaled Mercedes from the crash site. The game warden had counted 16 points on the buck’s rack. The shattered body would feed the shelter folks for a time. Meanwhile the road crew collected the scattered belongings including the “We’re on our Honeymoon” sign. The hearse heading for the morgue pulled past the crew and their small tangled heap of ruined worldly goods.