Written by Isha Vashista
Edited by Ilakiya PB
Illustrated by Parina Ramchandani
The Life of a Painting
I looked at the painting and it was as if I saw the painting in front of me from every possible view that could have existed.
“The painter, the creator of the painting, brought it to life from a dream he had seen a fortnight ago, a dream that had haunted him with its colors and visions. As if dragged to the canvas himself, the painter took to his paints and transferred his memories onto the canvas, thus giving birth to the painting that would soon live its own life. With the last brushstroke of red, the painter was relieved of the dream and I awaited my first breath.
A couple of years passed, and I held my breath longer than anticipated. See, I had made my way from the painter's house to a small gallery, situated beside a quaint café, the place from where the first breath of air would unknowingly come from. She would walk in, with a book in her hand, the scent of coffee surrounding her and offer me my first breath, finally bringing purpose to my life. She had read about admiring art in her books and seen pictures of people on Pinterest, falling in love with them. And although she didn't necessarily understand the haunting that I was made with, it was as if she dressed me up with newer imaginations. My orange sky became the sunset for her and dark clouds the sign of a cozy night. It was as if she brought forth another side of me, and I fell in love with the fairytale of it.
Words about me must have fallen from her mouth to her friends for a few days later, her friend who breathed paint stumbled in. She recognized me for every color that was painted, every brushstroke, every mistake in it. She saw that the techniques behind the dark tower were that of impressionism and the colors that made my tower were of three shades. She was the colder side of me, with only eyes for precision. It was as if I was stripped naked and dissected for everything I was and what lay within was the life of the canvas, the very being that kept me alive.
However, I started to wonder if I would ever find my home. Find the person that understood my soul and emotions. It would not be a few months later, when a man would walk in with a muffler around his neck, a haunted look in his eyes, smelling of cigarettes. He would look at me and it would be as if I settled into myself. He would recognize me for the nightmare I was supposed to be, for the time I waited for him, but also for my colors. The orange sky would go back to the sky of the Judgment Day that the painter saw, and the dark clouds would become the demons that they were meant to be. The dark tower would be restored as the imaginative home of the Devil and the rolling fields would once again be filled with the souls of the damned. The day would finally come and I would rest in peace knowing that I was understood."
The painting hung in front of me, decorated amongst warm light and surrounded by people enjoying, living its life as it wanted, taking on different masks with every person it met.
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