By Taj Martin
They made me return to the studio from the hospital. Apparently, I had made a remarkable recovery. My plain room, with the view of the garden, would be occupied by someone else. I knew that when I inevitably returned, the chances of getting the same room were slim to none. I hated the thought of that. Despite this, I didn’t bother arguing with the doctors, though my body certainly did not agree with their prognosis. My agent dropped me off at my studio and it is a mess. Open buckets of paint; old, dried brushes; and various silver tools lay discarded and strewn across the ground. The rotten, aged wood of the floor is flecked with a kaleidoscope of colour. The space is dark, save for a single candle on top of a busy desk. I look over at its flickering light, at the very last of the wax being melted away, and think back to art school. I recall my teacher’s words: ‘In painting, light is structure, it is form, it is shape; it is everything.’ His words circle in my mind like an infinitely spinning disc, everything he taught me lasered and engraved on my brain with a branding iron. A small futon rests in a corner of the room, which I used when I would stay overnight in the studio – though on those nights I rarely slept. The room is crowded with canvases of all sizes, in all stages of completion. I notice the fresh canvas which has been left for me, sitting unnervingly upon my easel in the centre of the room. I stare at it, and the more that I do, the more I am filled with a strange, empty, hollow feeling, yet I struggle to look away. When I do manage to, a familiar burning hot sensation takes hold of my body, rising towards my temple. It feels far more intense than usual. The canvas stares back at me with a cold white glare. I’ve always hated the colour white.
I have sat here for the past two hours, watching the candle’s slow agonising death and occasionally glancing at the brush and palette next to me when I try to avert my gaze. I’m studying the canvas closely, gazing over every inch of its dotted texture, waiting for its hidden meaning to reveal itself to me. I close my eyes and try my best to block everything else out. My only company is the sound of my heavy, laboured breathing. Suddenly, my attention is broken by the sound of my phone ringing. I pick up on the last ring.
How are you? How is the piece coming along? It’s fine, I’m fine. I feel great.
What are you painting? I haven’t decided yet. A self-portrait perhaps.
Will you be done by the deadline? Of course.
A few more minutes of idle conversation and the call is ended. My attention shifts to the other stored and forgotten artwork in the room. A face on a canvas catches my eye. I walk over to it, brushing the dust off the front. It’s a painting of myself. It takes me a minute before I realise this, and I hold its gaze longer than I’m comfortable to admit. I can only just recognise the painting as my own; both the style and the subject are so radically different to anything of my recent creation. I sit looking solemnly at myself, as if the canvas were a mirror. My dark brown painted eyes are glassy and unwavering. Thick strokes are visible across my cheeks. The style is amateurish, but full of heart, and just looking at it fills me with a somewhat comforting feeling. As much as I’m tempted to critique the messy lines and shading, something stops me from doing so. I look so much younger. Where had the time gone? I return to the centre of the room, in front of the blank canvas. Hours pass and slip by like a thief in the night.
The sun peeks through the makeshift bed sheet blinds and wakes me from a night of restless slumber. My back is stiff as a branch and as I push myself up, a sharp pain shoots straight through my spine. As my vision clears, I notice the futon in my view – I realise I have been laying on the hard timber. I don’t remember falling asleep, so I’m unsure if I passed out or moved here in my restless state. I see my phone flash on the ground next to me with a message.
Just stopped by the gallery, everything is set. Just one piece missing now. Let me know how you go.
Attached, a photo of an empty spot on a wall in an otherwise full gallery. I feel my heart disappear into my body, as I’m reminded of my responsibility. It feels strange to me now that it was once my privilege. I slowly stand up and turn around, secretly hoping that a finished painting would await me, that perhaps I had a spark of inspiration before I drifted off to sleep. But no, deep down I knew that my exhaustion was not a result of a sudden burst of energy which I had used up, but a constant, continuous draining of life. The exhaustion that turned ardour to arduous. It was just one final painting, but there was nothing new to paint. I had given everything to my art, and I was left with nothing. My carefully built sandcastle was slowly but surely being pulled back into the ocean, wave after wave, returning to where it belonged.
I centre myself in front of the blank canvas just as I did yesterday, picking up the same brushes and palette that I’ve used since I first bought the studio – over ten years ago. I think of all the hours I have spent in this very spot. Now, I would rather be anywhere but here. I imagine myself back in my bare, colourless hospital room, and it provides me with a slight comfort. I know I have very little time left, so I decide to start painting, no matter what it is. I start with a preliminary routine – applying a base coat, painting a generic background. I’m only fooling myself. I realise I’m doing everything possible to avoid picking a subject. Should I work on a self-portrait? Or, maybe something abstract? The truth is, there isn’t anything I want to paint. I am distracted, looking around at the room, staring at the floor – doing practically anything to avoid my task. I start to wonder if there is truly no hope for me. Maybe I’m just too old, I think to myself.
Finally, while staring at the big open buckets of paint I have in storage, I get an idea for what feels like the first time in years. I get up and make my way over to them, then, mustering all my strength, I lift one slowly and move it over to where the canvas lay. I repeat this process until all three of them are next to where I am working. Unsurprisingly, I am already out of breath, and I can feel my fragile body failing me. With great effort, I lift the first bucket up, shaking, and pour it completely over the canvas. It splashes across the room, spreading across the floor and seeping into the worn floorboards. I lift another up, with my frail arms threatening to snap, and throw its contents towards the canvas. Not a spot of white can be seen any longer. The splashes of colour interweave, creating its own universe, telling its own story. I feel my muscles relax for a moment, and my laboured breathing slows. A wave of calm washes over me.
Just one more. I lift hard, exerting more effort than I ever have before, then, when it is at level with my target, I let go. The bucket falls – and so do I with it. I collapse face first onto the floor, landing with a thud. The paint splashes out as a tidal wave, engulfing both me and the ground with its fluorescent colour. It continues to pour and seep out of the buckets and off the canvas, and mixes with a strange bright red. My eyes are closed, but I can imagine the colours being overpowered by scarlet, flowing like water. I imagine the sound of dripping continuing for hours – or even days – and then, as the paint slowly dries, a silence returns to the world once again.
I awake in a familiar room. My eyes slowly blink and open gradually, as the bright white light enters. I slowly sit up and the sensation of pain introduces itself all over. It’s difficult to identify the area which hurts the most, but then it’s all gone. I see a white ceiling, then white walls, a small desk with some roses, and then a window with a view of a small garden. I wonder how many days it has been. Or, if I was imagining that whole ordeal.
‘You’re finally awake.’
I look over to where the voice is coming from, but I don’t see anyone.
‘It’s okay… You don’t need to do anything now… Just close your eyes and go back to sleep.’
Later that night, downtown, in a large gallery space, hundreds of people are gathered for the opening night of a new exhibition: one that celebrates the life’s work of one of the most prolific artists of the recent past. Inside, patrons mingle with each other and enjoy the complimentary champagne.
‘So, what do you think?’ one guest says to another.
‘Oh, I think the work here is wonderful, it was great to be invited.’ She takes a sip from her flute. ‘I do wonder though. Doesn’t the artist usually attend the opening night?’
‘Yeah, it’s strange, isn’t it? And look over there.’ She motions to her friend a noticeably empty spot on a wall right towards the end of the gallery. ‘Doesn’t it look like something’s missing?’
‘Maybe he’ll show up and hang the final painting himself.’