The first time I see the painting it’s in a
bankrupt gallery and the only part of the building not for sale. It’s
not a complicated painting, a naked woman with a riotous tangle of red
hair standing against black, the darkness almost seeming to wrap around
her, like it’s trying to hide her nakedness. The woman has her hands
extended, like she’s inviting the viewer to join her. Or maybe she’s
begging the viewer for something. Her mouth is open; chips of silica
embedded in the paint so it looks like diamonds are falling from her
lips like that old fairy tale. If the viewer looks closer there is
something else marring the painting, flecks of red that look like rose
petals, but maybe it’s blood. Like the woman is screaming the words that
turn to diamonds and the stones cut her throat and mouth with the force
of it. You can never get closer to the painting than you are when you
first see it. It’s something weird in the perspective, you can have your
nose right up to the canvas, smelling acrylic and charcoal, and still
feel like your not close enough to see what’s going on.
The artist stands next to the painting like a proud parent, clutching the rosary looped around her wrist and hand so hard her knuckles turn white. Her smile looks strained, stretched, like an open wound on the throat of a corpse. When I get close enough to get a good look at her, her eyes are glazed over, like she’s high or a million miles away. The only time she focuses is to chase away people who get too close. I hear a man ask her where she got her inspiration in a voice that sounds like he’s much more interested in what’s up her skirt. The smile she gives him in response raises the hair on the back of my neck. Apparently it has the same effect on the man, who quickly makes an excuse and half-runs away from that knife-blade grin that’s fading away. Some of my hair has fallen over my eyes, a gust from the door opening tossing it about, and I brush the strands of dark red out of my eyes before bolting.
-------------------
The second time I see the painting I’m not expecting it. I took the train into the city early this morning, a birthday present to myself. There’s a vintage vinyl store on the corner of 30th and Main and I’ve been promising myself a new record player and some new albums to play on it. Something’d gone off on my old one and it’s been scratched the hell out of my old Robert Johnson album. I’m buying breakfast in a café that smells like fresh, strong coffee and I look out the window. The woman in the painting stares back. I drink coffee as I stare across the street, head across to the shop when I’ve finished a pastry.
There are very few people in a gallery this early in the morning so I can finally get close to the painting. The artist, H. Belladie according to the tag, had repainted the woman to appear closer to the viewer. The hands remain outstretched, the face still entreating as diamonds and bloody petals fall from it’s lips, the riotous tangle of vibrant red hair still draws the eye first. The darkness surrounding her now seems like dark wings trying to shield her, but maybe that’s just the way it feathers at her sides. The silica chips are more random in their spread, like they were thrown at the canvas in anger. It’s even harder to decide if the red is blood drops or rose petals. They’re painted more clearly, but maybe it’s the anguished expression on the woman’s face that lends itself to make anyone looking think maybe she’s spitting blood as well as diamonds. A shiver racks my spine and I turn to see the artist, H. Belladie herself, staring at me with glassy eyes and a smile that says she’s wondering how best to dissect me.
It takes two blocks for my heart to stop racing after I leave, but it’s not until I’m on the train home with my new record player and records at my feet that I loose the constant compulsion to check over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed.
-------------------
It takes a few months for the woman to stop appearing in the background of my dreams, and by the time she does H. Belladie puts on an art show two towns away. I’m torn between going and moving out of state for the duration. When I drive to the grocery store one night it scares the hell out of me when I end up driving straight past the store and end up parked outside the gallery. It feels like I’m in a bank of fog as I walk in, everything is only white noise until I see the painting and my heart stops. The woman is closer than ever, so close that her face takes up most of the canvas, her hands braced against what might be a pane of glass. Her hands are balled into fists, bloodied in some places from the cracks the Belladie drew in some places, smudged with blood. The look on her face is no longer ambiguous now, the woman is flat out screaming as crow-dark feathers catch in her hair and rest on what you can see of her body. There is panic in her face, eyes open wide enough that I can see the color of her irises match mine. The fog in my mind swirls around me, turning dark. The hair on the back of my neck raises, a primordial terror turning my blood to ice as I turn to see Belladie smiling that nightmarish, knife-blade grin at me. I turn and pound on the glass, screaming for help as she draws closer. Diamonds cut my throat and my lips, scratching the pane of glass that’s cracked but shows no sign of breaking. I can hear Belladie’s footsteps coming closer, the clicking of rosary beads in a white-knuckled grip. I scream but there is no sound and all I can taste is acrylic paint and charcoal. People stare at me through the window, stare at my anguish, murmuring to themselves before walking away. I scream and pound at the glass until rosary beads brush my back and a cold, claw-like grip tightens on my shoulder.
The paint dries.
The artist stands next to the painting like a proud parent, clutching the rosary looped around her wrist and hand so hard her knuckles turn white. Her smile looks strained, stretched, like an open wound on the throat of a corpse. When I get close enough to get a good look at her, her eyes are glazed over, like she’s high or a million miles away. The only time she focuses is to chase away people who get too close. I hear a man ask her where she got her inspiration in a voice that sounds like he’s much more interested in what’s up her skirt. The smile she gives him in response raises the hair on the back of my neck. Apparently it has the same effect on the man, who quickly makes an excuse and half-runs away from that knife-blade grin that’s fading away. Some of my hair has fallen over my eyes, a gust from the door opening tossing it about, and I brush the strands of dark red out of my eyes before bolting.
-------------------
The second time I see the painting I’m not expecting it. I took the train into the city early this morning, a birthday present to myself. There’s a vintage vinyl store on the corner of 30th and Main and I’ve been promising myself a new record player and some new albums to play on it. Something’d gone off on my old one and it’s been scratched the hell out of my old Robert Johnson album. I’m buying breakfast in a café that smells like fresh, strong coffee and I look out the window. The woman in the painting stares back. I drink coffee as I stare across the street, head across to the shop when I’ve finished a pastry.
There are very few people in a gallery this early in the morning so I can finally get close to the painting. The artist, H. Belladie according to the tag, had repainted the woman to appear closer to the viewer. The hands remain outstretched, the face still entreating as diamonds and bloody petals fall from it’s lips, the riotous tangle of vibrant red hair still draws the eye first. The darkness surrounding her now seems like dark wings trying to shield her, but maybe that’s just the way it feathers at her sides. The silica chips are more random in their spread, like they were thrown at the canvas in anger. It’s even harder to decide if the red is blood drops or rose petals. They’re painted more clearly, but maybe it’s the anguished expression on the woman’s face that lends itself to make anyone looking think maybe she’s spitting blood as well as diamonds. A shiver racks my spine and I turn to see the artist, H. Belladie herself, staring at me with glassy eyes and a smile that says she’s wondering how best to dissect me.
It takes two blocks for my heart to stop racing after I leave, but it’s not until I’m on the train home with my new record player and records at my feet that I loose the constant compulsion to check over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed.
-------------------
It takes a few months for the woman to stop appearing in the background of my dreams, and by the time she does H. Belladie puts on an art show two towns away. I’m torn between going and moving out of state for the duration. When I drive to the grocery store one night it scares the hell out of me when I end up driving straight past the store and end up parked outside the gallery. It feels like I’m in a bank of fog as I walk in, everything is only white noise until I see the painting and my heart stops. The woman is closer than ever, so close that her face takes up most of the canvas, her hands braced against what might be a pane of glass. Her hands are balled into fists, bloodied in some places from the cracks the Belladie drew in some places, smudged with blood. The look on her face is no longer ambiguous now, the woman is flat out screaming as crow-dark feathers catch in her hair and rest on what you can see of her body. There is panic in her face, eyes open wide enough that I can see the color of her irises match mine. The fog in my mind swirls around me, turning dark. The hair on the back of my neck raises, a primordial terror turning my blood to ice as I turn to see Belladie smiling that nightmarish, knife-blade grin at me. I turn and pound on the glass, screaming for help as she draws closer. Diamonds cut my throat and my lips, scratching the pane of glass that’s cracked but shows no sign of breaking. I can hear Belladie’s footsteps coming closer, the clicking of rosary beads in a white-knuckled grip. I scream but there is no sound and all I can taste is acrylic paint and charcoal. People stare at me through the window, stare at my anguish, murmuring to themselves before walking away. I scream and pound at the glass until rosary beads brush my back and a cold, claw-like grip tightens on my shoulder.
The paint dries.
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