The Story
She had stopped painting. It was too dangerous.
She felt crazy. But what else was she to do? There wasn’t exactly a varnish that could keep creatures from crawling out of one’s canvas.
At least, not one Shay was aware of. And she’d done the research. As she stared at her woefully expensive brushes abandoned on various easels through the room, she briefly wondered if there was a painters’ equivalent of holy water.
It was frightening enough when the frogs’ slimy pads pulled them from her stretched tarp to escape a peaceful pond of her realism practice. She had thought the muffins her kind neighbor had brought her were spiked with something! Or perhaps the family inheritance of madness finally arrived. However, the oily prints of dark viridian across her living room the next morning were not to be argued with. Shay attacked the stains with all the cleaning supplies in her possession, while sage burned uselessly in her studio.
She had thought this was a one-off. Perhaps some superhero or warlock or cursed ancestor had accidentally bewitched her tubes of paints when they were aiming for something else? Just to be sure, she threw out all the colors she’d used for the piece, even her precious tube of discontinued Cadmium Green. Burned the canvas in her backyard fire, just in case.
A full day later when she had regained a calm and driven perspective, she broke in a few paints she bought fresh that morning with a simple portrait of the cardinal that frequented her yard. And as the carmine-crested duplicate flew gracefully from underneath her brush sweep to join his twin on the feeder, Shay admitted that she might be the problem.
Trying to do the sensible thing, she made a number of appointments. Her ophthalmologist said she may need readers in a few years, but that all was generally well. The neurologist insisted she passed the cognitive test “with flying colors”. When the phrase sent Shay into a cold sweat, he encouraged her to see a psychologist. Shay nodded shakily and added it to her list. It turned out her psyche was fine too- except a little locker room thing with her high school bully over twenty years ago which she’d apparently repressed. She thanked the kind eyed doctor and took the prescription for an insurance-approved Zoloft variance, stuffing it to the very bottom of her purse. She was pretty sure her anxiety was magical-paint-creatures-in-her-house based, not high school or chemical. But she did use the card he’d given her for a recommended therapist to set up weekly check-ins as a precautionary measure.
She briefly considered making an appointment with a priest or maybe a witch. However, she was concerned the former would consider her the demonic spirit that needed excising and she had no idea how to even find the latter. That left her the only option of just accepting her new reality. After a while, she no longer minded the conceptual frogs that had taken over her rain-soaked patio. Or the abstract lavender mists that now clung to her ceiling. Not even the miniature tigers that were basking in the soft light of her violet’s grow-lamp.
The hulking vermillion being that hid in her guest bathroom was probably an issue. And she didn’t know if it hid there for its own protection or hers.
So she’d stopped painting all together as well as inviting people over. Afraid that the ravenous creativity that woke her in the night or shook her as she paged through her favorite novel would create something a little less contained, so to speak.
Thus far, this unworldly happening had only taken control of her new tub, the living room chandelier, the plant stand, the bird bath, and one bathroom. She still had a functioning kitchen, living room, and most of her upstairs suite. But what if her colors led her towards a phoenix? Her strokes cast out a devil within? She was sure her antique coffee tables wouldn’t survive such an experience and she was not positive of her own chances either.
She doubled her dose of melatonin at night, paired it with chamomile tea, and selected only the most mundane of beach books for her leisure. She even kept the TV strictly on the Hallmark channel, fearing inspiration.
And it was going relatively well. For one, the frogs seemed to respond to commands, despite the language barrier.
“Stay within my yard- from that leaning cypress to the shed. If y’all go any further, I don’t know who will see you or what they’ll do with you. And whoever left half a fly in the tub better finish it!”
The mists responded not to words (“Shoo!” made them vibrate in a way that looked suspiciously like laughter). But they did seem to understand handwaving when they had lowered too far into Shay’s field of view- obstructing windows or her laptop screen. They were apparently especially ladened by rainy days, and in these circumstances Shay found herself flaying so often that her smartwatch prodded her to record the exercise.
The vermillion being, which after her fear had dissipated Shay had begun to affectionately call “Red”, seemed to just want to be alone. It was the most like her, Shay mused, as she’d downed a pint of mint chip ice cream to recover from a particularly rousing therapy session. So after several nights of its wailing, she slid a few chocolate-covered caramels under the door. The creature went quiet, and they had been communicating via junk food ever since.
But as much as she had found a rhythm with her accidental adoptees, she still feared very much bringing a new one to this world.
And of course because that is how life goes, exactly three weeks, one day, and nine hours after she made the decision to never paint again, she was offered her first featured gallery showing.
She stared at the email, heartbroken. There had been a few small galleries in which she’d been a participant. And the Fall Into Arts Festival crowd was always rewarding. But this was from the Upstate Leonard Flats Art Gallery, one of the most respected galleries on the coast. And they wanted not for her to participate, but to be the featured artist of an event and showings through the following week!
Shay paced around her studio. Who had learned of her? That pearled woman at the farmer’s market? A silent devotee? More importantly- were there enough already completed pieces that would suffice? There had not been an instance of canvas-escape after drying, the paint had always been wet. But Shay had no confidence that there were defined rules to this happening. She counted and recounted her boards and frames and even small sketches. There were just enough if she included even the less inspired pieces, but a place like the ULF would expect some sort of theme!
There was the set of mountains from autumn, and the eerie lake she’d done last spring. She unearthed russet scapes of rock sheers and her best charcoal sunset. She began to see a “Nature’s Shadows” title card in her mind; heard soft classical music pared with subtle bird song as the participants wandered. Perhaps a polyptych of a dark forest in some form of lighted concealment could pull it all together-
A soft lavender tendril settled on her shoulder.
Her racing thoughts halted. Then she took a deep, deserving breath. She waved the wisp away with one hand and with the other caught a tear trying to fall down her cheek.
She could not do the gallery. How could she risk all those people? What if the jaguar on her rock ledges decided it too wanted life? Or if she took on the forest panels, what would emerge from them? A simple sapling, or the shadows themselves? It could not be done. To hold off the fear, she dove into the self pity and pulled a chardonnay bottle from her fridge before dragging herself to the tub for scalding sanctuary, a lounging frog leaping out of her way. Perhaps a good soak, inside and out, could steady her to answer the email with a polite, inexplicable “Thank you, but no thank you.”
Some time later, the bottle was gone. She was unsure how much later but the water had begun to run cold. At the same time, growling shook up the stairs and into her hiding place.
“Not NOW, Red!” She shouted.
There was a moment of silence, and then another growl that curled into almost a full roar.
“Oh my god!” Shay pulled herself free of the bath, wrapping her robe on her damp limbs. She stomped down the stairs and into the cupboard, grabbing the entire container of Oreos from the shelf and whipping it under the guest bathroom door.
“Happy?” She cried at the door. “HAPPY?!” she yelled up at the mist. “Are you HAPPY?!” She screeched towards the patio.
Then she fell to her knees in her living room and wept.
A sliding sound finally made her look up. The container of Oreos had been pushed back out the bathroom, without a one missing.
Shay sniffled. “I’m sorry, Red,” she whimpered, as she peeled open the package. She was unsure about Red’s opposable-thumb situation, but had indeed learned it liked things opened before offering.
She snuck two cookies out of the sleeve before pushing the plastic back into the bathroom.
But not a moment later, it came sliding out again.
Shay stared at the Oreos. They were double-stuffed! What junk food lover was going to turn their nose up at that?
But going to the fridge would be an excuse to start on the Pinot Grigio, so she selected a couple slices of leftover pizza as well. She took several swigs as the plate warmed in the microwave and as she walked back to the guest bath, realized the mists were hanging awfully low. In the dim light of a bright moon, she also spotted several frog outlines suckered against the window, peering in.
“I’m sorry for yelling, everyone,” she cooed, “it’s not your fault… I don’t think. I am just sad about the gallery, is all.”
She slid the plate of pizza through a small crack in the door. Another growl and it also returned untouched.
“What the hell, Red? I wasn’t that mean. And you gotta eat- I know you.”
She stared down at the offending pizza. Swallowed another slice herself. Then she knocked on the door, “I knoooow what you want, big guy- girl- …friend. Be right back.”
Returning to the pantry, she moved several boxes and jars until she got to the back where she’d hidden the two boxes of Girl Scout Samoas. For emergencies. She and Red agreed that these were the fastest fix to just about anything: Longing, anxiety, fear, cute guy at the coffee shop didn’t like your hair pin? Coconut covered in chocolate and caramel, sitting heavenly atop a cookie.
She pulled a sleeve from the box, arranged them on a flowered tea plate, and cracked the door just long enough to slide them in.
Thinking the situation dealt with, she grabbed her bottle from the floor and was headed to the couch when she once more heard the sound of a door quickly open and shut.
And there was the plate of cookies. Only one missing.
“Red, what do want?! I can only get those like once a year! Do you know how precious my stock of these is?!”
An authoritative growl responded.
“Well I never.” Shay looked towards the ceiling, “do y’all know anything about this?”
The mists only glistened in response.
The growling began once more, the volume increasing exponentially. She feared her neighbors were about to call complaining she was listening to the Animal Channel too loud, or that they suspected she’d illegally adopted a lion. Neither was as far from the truth as she’d like, but she just could not deal with that right now.
“Red, please-” she pressed herself to the door separating them, “what’s wrong? What can I get you?”
Growls again in response. But this time, slightly higher pitched. Was that… whining? In their, although brief, months together she had never heard Red whine.
She slumped back against the bathroom door, sliding to the floor hopelessly (though careful not to tilt her fresh bottle too far).
“Red… did you hear me venting about the gallery email?”
A melancholy roll of thunder answered.
“But I can’t. As much as we understand each other, no one else would. It would…” Shay took a long swig of the Pinot Grigio, “…it would be a disaster.”
Silence fell on her home.
The frogs did not croak a single toon. The mists stilled. Red refused to respond. It was the first moment in weeks that Shay wondered if all had been imagined.
A sharp trill shot through the air- Shay’s painted cardinal crossed from her patio through the glass door to rest on her left knee.
As she stared at it, her inebriated eyes attempting to settle on its shifting shades, he whistled and trilled again.
In response, the frogs began a low melody. Mists twirled in the space of her ceiling, as if dancing a smart fox trot to the sound.
“And you, Red?” Shay whispered towards the door.
A low, slow purr emitted from the dark space beyond.
“Alright,” she stood, wine bottle still in hand, “Fine. I hear you. We’re doing the gallery!”
There was much celebratory cacophony, and whether it was the sounds or the wine, Shay was determined once again.
… … …
Shay walked up and down the marble floor more confidently than she felt any right to be, as the main lights were dimmed and the illuminating LEDs brought up.
She held a local merlot in her hand, the stemless glass grasped so tightly her knuckles blanched, but none of the gallery associates seemed to notice.
Instead they nonchalantly hastened through what must have been their usual routine- duster in one hand, check list in another. Halfway up the translucent stairs, a woman with a gray streaked asymmetrical haircut barked last orders:
“What is the spacing on Mountains Two and Abbreviated Sunset? From here it’s ungodly- put another quarter of an inch between them! Marline, straighten those pamphlets on reception. Who has the cheese boards? I want the white cheddar thrown right out. Havarti on all the tables to complement the soft shading. No, Camden, a quarter of an inch, not a football field! Fourteen minutes people, I need you to look alive!”
Shay had not realized what a vital part of her artistic growth cheese selections might play, but she was grateful that a professional was weighing in.
What she had very much realized was that this evening may take a turn that the gallery associates had not planned for. How to warn them? There was no sane way to do so. So Shay held her tongue, pleading silently to whoever might listen.
But when the cool, halituous mists began to fill the space, it was clear Shay had not arrived solo. She tried to subtly motion for them to go back home, glaring at the misbehaving vapors. However, as the patrons slowly filtered in, many remarked on the amazing “special effects” the gallery had introduced. Shay worked very hard not to make eye contact with the panicking gray-haired-cheese-queen.
The gallery filled to a comfortable crowded. The “ooh”s and “aah”s and “my, what fabulous strokes!” made Shay’s heart flutter happily. She wanted to hope.
As she was speaking with a lovely couple who were quite proudly, and loudly, the daughter and son-in-law of an Americans for the Arts board member, a short man in the gallery’s full black uniform tapped her elbow, “It’s time, Miss Flairstone.”
Shay nodded, “Will you excuse me?”
“Of course!” Bellowed the gentleman, “That’ll give Miriam a chance to pick who of yours is going home with us!” as the two walked off in laughter.
Shay smiled in return, but was a little bothered by how accurate that phrase might be.
As she strode past each painting, she whispered: “Stay still, stay still, please God stay still.” She did so with a thread of lavender tickling her throat. It had perched on her shoulder like a loyal parrot, and Shay was almost comforted by its presence. But when a growl from the backroom sounded more familiar than it should, Shay practically jogged to the bottom of the staircase to begin her speech.
“Thank you all for coming! I am Shay Flairstone.”
The room filled with polite applause and happy murmurings. Out of the corner of her eye, Shay could see the gallery manager speaking with the curator. The gray eyebrows were raised slightly in curious concern. Shay quieted Red in her heart, but could do no more in the moment. So she continued.
“These works follow my inner travel from brilliant sunrise to encompassing sunset, and all the shadows in between.” Gesturing broadly to the room and up the stairs, as the curator had coached her.
“Light has always been both friend and foe to the artist. In its brilliance and in its hiding, we find moments that can stir hope, fear, joy, and even that tingly feeling you cannot decide if you like or not.”
There was a smattering of soft laughter and knowing nods.
“These paintings can be taken in at any order, though if you would like a path, you may take sunrise at the top of the stairs down into the night, or begin by the drink counter to lift yourself from the evening into the morning. I hope you enjoy, relate, and introspect.”
Another round of polite cheering, then she was swallowed by the embrace of the crowd.
“Well done, dear,” the curator whispered in Shay’s ear, whipping past her to greet a bejeweled older woman, “My lady, how wonderful for you to join us again!”
Shay was quite sure her duties were far from done.
She had her glass refilled and then stuck to the corners. She forced a small smile on her face that she hoped made her look more mysterious artist than nervous wreck.
She listened as hard as she could for another growl. All she heard were the interested conversations of the wanderers.
“I just love her play with blues. Don’t you, dear? One of the ‘Dusk’s would really complement the foyer, maybe both.”
“The change in cloud coverage shows a change in the mind, I think.”
“Have you been up to see ‘Dawn Over a Scandal’? It may be my favorite.”
“I think I’m favoring these- look how they practically jump from the wall!”
“No, I agree. Some of the midday works are very reminiscent of a Mark Voltense. There was clearly a little inspiration there. You know we have one of his at the lake house-“
“The ‘Twilight on a Free River’ almost moved me to tears! We’ll have to at least get a print done, if someone has already nabbed the original.”
Shay dared to relax for a moment. The people were pleased. The mists were pleased! She gazed up at them as they shimmered and shook, happily shifting from one conversation to another as they swept over the hanging globe lights.
But then, in the middle of a sip, she heard it.
Stretching canvas.
She nearly choked, felt the sour ping of wine up the back of her throat into her nostrils. The young associate from earlier appeared at her side, placing a hand at her back.
“Miss, are you alright? Can I get you a water? Do you need to step aside?”
Shay reached out and shook her head. He took her clammy hand and held it until she caught her breath.
“No, thank you. I’m alright.” She half wheezed.
He winked at her, “It happens to new artists at their first show all the time. I’m Daniel, if you need a place to hide for a second, just call for me.”
She squeezed his arm gratefully but knew hiding was the last option she had. With one more encouraging smile, he disappeared back into the throng. Shay followed a moment after him, stopping briefly at each painting.
Not you, not you, not you, good girl Midnight Moonflower, thought it’d be you. Wait, where is-?
Another growl from the backroom. A deep, displeased growl.
It had to be the ‘Eclipsed Company.’ Red had howled and stomped the entire time Shay had spent reworking the darkened figures. It was indeed as she had feared with dream inspiration; woken in the middle of the night and called to her canvas half mad. She’d sketched two strange beings, their shadows gone with the lack of sun, but an unearthly glow about their feet as they gazed at the stars. Shay had meant to speak on the inverse of the soul that can be caused by rare happenings. Instead, it seemed she had again birthed chaos.
Red had practically gone feral when Shay awoke the next morning and began coloring the sketch, determined for it to be a focus point of her gallery.
“It will be fine, Red. We have over a week for it to dry and wreak havoc. If it doesn’t, it’s going. You’re the one who got us into this anyway!” She had slipped a bag of Cheetos under the door as an olive branch.
But she’d been wrong. The Eclipse Figures were turning, moving from their luminous world. She strode up to the painting where it stood center on the front wall, unsure of what she could possibly do.
“No no no,” she whispered at the wall, “please calm back down. I can’t, I can’t do this. You can’t do this!” Several pairs of eyes turned towards her, and she tried to return a weary smile. Maybe they would just think she was insane? That was really the best outcome.
But there was no denying the pale foot that stepped slowly out onto the marble floor, its place on the stippled, mossy field left empty. Then another. And the being stood before her.
Its companion followed soon after, their faces only the bleached wan of a human. Still Shay felt when she looked into their eyeless sockets, she saw wondering turbulence.
They gazed at her for a long moment. She felt frozen, ice inside and out. Why had she kept painting? Why did she put all these people in danger- for her own pride? For money? A drop of sweat pearled at her temple. Why had she made them? Why her?
A loud growl was her only response.
The gallery was silent.
Another growl, louder and closer. When she turned, Shay saw the shadow of something large break the light under the back entry door.
A squawking “What the hell was that?” piped from the back of the room.
The mists crowded around her like a fluid armor.
She turned again to her specters.
“I see you.” She whispered, then slightly louder, steadier, “You are my shadows. Blank and unknowing, like me. But I understand now. I- we, are not trapped by the shades. We are a part of them.”
The first figure tilted its head, looking somehow, at Shay with kindness. The other seemed to smile, though Shay could not describe how she knew.
Then in a moment, they reached out their arms, and the mists flew forward to envelope the figures.
Shay gasped. A sharp, not unpleasant, pain shot through her chest- like sweet lightening. When she opened her eyes, the mists were shimmering along the ceiling again, dancing along the staircase railing and the figures were gone.
The room erupted in applause.
“My god, what a display!”
“I can’t believe it, brilliant!”
“Here, here! Cheers to the performers!”
“I have never seen anything like that!”
“Don’t you just love when they’re interactive?”
Shay was again pulled into the fray.
“That was so authentic!”
“Was this a display of your own mortality or on mortality in general?”
“Voltense could never, we must have you up at the lodge for a showing, simply must!”
Shay glanced to the back entry door, where there was no shadow any longer. She reached out to Red deep within herself, and found the tired creature at home, at rest.
The mists, however, were pleasantly pleased to continue the party. They shook and shimmered for all to see late into the night.
When Shay said her goodbyes, twice apologizing to the distressed gallery manager as well as the charmed curator for no warning on her “impromptu performance,” she called an Uber to take her back to the hotel. She told the driver the strange haze accompanying her was simply her vape pen acting up.
And then she slept. For nearly 14 hours, she slept unceasing.
Bright eyed and bushy tailed, she greeted the rest of the week’s gallery showings with a light heart. Many of those who entered had heard of the remarkable performance and Shay would have to gently chide. “Oh how I wish you could have been here for the opening! It was really exclusive escapade into the theme.” This seemed enough to satisfy most, and they would continue around the space exchanging gossip and placing bids.
On the drive home she took the scenic route, stopping occasionally to take pictures of noon on a mountain or midday on a small town. She made sure to pick up a bag of saltwater taffy from a roadside general store, as well as an atrocity called grape pie that she knew Red would favor.
By the end of her drive, only the stars were awake. Shay hummed quietly to her home, watching the sleepy mists settle back into their space and listening for the whistling snores of her frog-filled backyard. She set the treats by the bathroom door, only hearing a soft drowsy rumble.
“Not a curse, but a blessing,” she said to the fresh, blank canvas, reaching for a brush.
The Word
Haze (noun): 1. A slight obscuration of the lower atmosphere, typically caused by fine suspended particles. 2. A state of mental obscurity or confusion.
First- a quick note: Neither the Upstate Leonard Flats Gallery, nor Mark Voltense, are real. They may echo real things, (enter the Fictional Events disclaimer from films here) but I assure you, I made them up for this story.
Alright, now down to our talk:
This story took me a while. Sometimes inspiration strikes and I get a story out in one evening and 3 glasses- done. This one took several weeks as I wrote and rewrote Shay’s relationship with her art. “Haze” is something I think anyone who has ever even tiptoed on the creative side of the brain can understand.
When trying to achieve something artistic, it can feel a multitude of ways: freeing, elating, bright, heavy, etc. But a very common feeling for those who would like to reach the mountaintop of creativity a second time, is that foggy, drenched feeling. How will I trudge through this? Which way do I go if I cannot see the top through the clouds?
Shay had to embrace her obstructed view. It was the only way to survive. And for many of us, that’s probably true. We cannot wait for perfect clarity. We must move as one with the mists, up to the peak.
It was interesting to be a writing artist talking about a painting artist. I am drawn to the commonalities and differences often, and I suspect we will see Shay again.
Happy reading!
PS: If you caught my red wine joke, extra kudos to you 😉
The Quilled Sister 