by C W Briar
I did not die that night, for the power that took me lacked such mercy. Instead, I awoke four months later to the shouts of soldiers seizing me at gunpoint. I was shivering terribly because I was covered with snow and the blood of people I have been accused of killing.
I am a victim, not a murderer. My mind has been contorted and bruised. I used to be sensible, logical, and normal, but those parts of me are coming to an end. This account has been penned during the high tides of sanity between recurring bouts of dreadful horror and confusion.
No one believes me that the guilty ones roam the earth. I cannot blame them, for only a few months ago I, too, would have scoffed at my mad mutterings. The police searches have failed to find the cult or the meadow ringed with obelisks. What evidence is there to free me?
To whosever reads this, do not judge me by what you see now, for this is no common insanity afflicting me. I beg you not to assume me guilty simply because you cannot see that which chooses to hide itself from mortal men. I am a living victim. I have heard, felt, and smelled the breath of powers hiding in this earth. I know what it is like to be a prisoner of the malice that resides in the shadows of reality.
The stars still look for me, watching through the window of my cell. At least I can hide from them. I have no escape from the cacophonous screams of the crows. They resound within me, waking or interrupting me at any hour. The birds mock me, torment me, and consume my resolve, and I alone can hear them.
My next collapse into terror may be permanent. If that occurs, this account will be the only defense of my name. You must believe my story. I did not kill, at least not while in control of my own mind. The cause of my growing insanity surrounds you as well, and your hope may die next. The malevolent power lurks within nature, both the nature of the land and nature of humanity. It thrives on and sustains all of our sufferings.
Who can stand against such darkness without succumbing to it? Who can free me, and free all of us, from its power?
The darkness is watching you, too.
Turpentine
Luciano Mideo’s masterpiece began with a loose nail.
The broad mirror in his apartment’s art studio suddenly fell from the wall. His reflection shattered into a dozen pieces and collapsed on the floor.
“Mannaggia!” he cursed in Italian as he hurled his pencil. It skittered across the wood floor and hid under a sofa.
Luciano raked his fingers through his long hair and sighed. The silver-framed mirror had cost over eight hundred British pounds and was the first thing he purchased after Tate Modern exhibited one of his sculptures. It was also one of the few possessions he had brought when he moved to New York City.
It wasn’t about the money. He could afford a similar mirror once he started selling paintings again. His name still possessed some value, even if it had been months since his last sale. No, the loss was largely sentimental.
Other issues were feeding his frustration. He paced the room, walking past the stack of unsigned portraits. All of them were nearly finished, lacking only final touches to their colors and shading. But they seemed stale, and being uncertain of what they lacked, he had moved on to other projects while awaiting inspiration.
All of his art, both his sculpting and painting, required new inspiration. A fresh subject or challenge. Luciano stopped and leaned against a window. Cars were queued at the red light below, and lunch-hour patrons were dining outdoors at the café across the street. He had originally loved his people-watching viewpoint of New York’s Chelsea District, but that too had stagnated. So what should he paint?
What? What!
Luciano slapped the window. It quaked, as did the semi-transparent reflection of his white-and-lavender apartment. He spun on his heels and marched through the circuit of rooms. Halfway through, he nearly kicked his Louis Vuitton coffee table in anger, but a tug from his better judgment restrained him.
“Focus, Luciano,” he told himself. Wandering meant zero progress.
He returned to the white canvas, which bore nothing more than a few pencil lines. He rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt, cinched his apron tighter, and turned the easel away from the broken mirror. He didn’t need that distraction. Instead, he faced two of his oldest past works. Both exhibited his preferences for strong color depth and blends of traditional art styles with the surreal. One piece featured misshapen glass hanging from a layered nest of driftwood pieces. The other was a painting that depicted family members standing behind a mother as she nursed a small skeleton.
Despite desiring to move forward, he glanced over his shoulder at the shattered mirror. The shards reflected an audience of his repeated face. So much for doing a realistic self-portrait.
Luciano cocked his head to one side. On second thought, a realistic self-portrait wasn’t the challenge he needed, anyway. Portraits could be spectacular, but they were also clichéd and limiting to creativity. The process would have been as methodical as the stoplight traffic patterns below his apartment.
How, then, should he alter his approach?
Did a painter need to stare at his reflection in order to recreate it? Of course not. Why not present the identity of his heart and mind, rather than replicate visible flesh? Why not stare through the lens of his hopes, desires, and strengths in order to paint his soul on the canvas? The image would be a truer reflection of who he was.
Eagerness surged through his body and raised the hairs on his neck. Moving with the urgency of a person rescuing valuables from a fire, he hastily grabbed the necessary oil paints and mixed them on his palette. Then, before making the first brush stroke, he paused long enough to empty his mind of everything except his immediate excitement and sensations. He focused on the darkness behind his closed eyelids, the taste of each slowed breath, the contrast of cold, conditioned air and warm sunlight coming through the window.
Luciano opened his eyes and began painting a mottled gray background. No pencil sketches of his face would be necessary. Lines were a constraint, a limitation to his vision. He moved the brush recklessly yet confidently over the canvas. After applying the base, he formed a genuine version of his face, which meant meditating on his mind while also recreating facial features. The resentments, desires, and thoughts that polite society demanded be tamed and hidden served as a muse for his work.
The portrait was more than mere reflection. It was him as only he knew.
Physical details did not go unaccounted for. He parted the portrait’s hair in the same way as his own, and with a flick of his wrist, he added the errant strand lying on his forehead. He included his burgeoning crows’ feet but did so with the same disappointment he felt when seeing them in the mirror. When a speck of black paint landed on his shoulder, he flicked one onto the portrait’s red shirt as well.
The image coalesced, coming nearer and nearer to life. Luciano’s obsession possessed his every thought until a rapid knock at the door interrupted him. He looked up from the canvas. Exhaustion pounced heavily upon him, and the paintbrush fell from his hand to the cloth-covered floor. How many hours had he spent on his work? The sun was setting, dyeing his apartment walls crimson.
Another knock. The sound barged into his isolation like an unwanted guest. He arched his back, and before he could finish the stretch, the door thumped again. “Perche me?” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. He removed and folded his apron, then called out, “Who is it?” in accented but fluent English.
A familiar New Yorker voice answered from the hall. “Luciano, it’s Julia. I need to see you.”
He rolled his eyes. Julia was his lover, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but he had no interest in a romp with her while firmly in the embrace of his craft. Nonetheless, he checked his breath and opened the door as far as the chain lock allowed.
“Today is not good for me,” Luciano grumbled.
Julia looked up from the diamond wedding ring she was spinning on her finger. She had left it on this time. “It’s an emergency,” she said, her voice as disheveled
as her unbrushed hair. “I need to see you.”
Luciano drummed his fingers on the wall. He wanted to return to his work, and Julia was not preened for a night together. She had arrived without makeup and dressed in a faded T-shirt and capris, a homelier version of the woman in a short, black dress from their previous rendezvous.
“Please?” she pleaded.
He hooked his fingers on the chain for several seconds before unfastening it and stepping aside. Julia entered and tried to bury her face in his chest. He stopped her advance with an upheld hand.
“I will be back in a minute,” he said, walking away.
Julia covered her chest with her arms. “But, Lu, this is serious.”
He wagged a finger at her. “Wait. I need to use the restroom first.”
By the time he returned, Julia had retreated to one of his chairs. She was staring out the window.
Luciano finished drying his hands on a small towel, then folded it and set it on a table. “What do you want to talk about?”
Julia held out her cell phone as if the sight of it had a significant meaning. His reflection in its screen shook because of her violent trembling.
“My husband found our text messages. He knows about us and—”
“And what?” he asked, worried. “Is he looking for me?”
Julia closed her red eyes tightly. “No.” Her voice cracked. “But he got angry at me. He started yelling and threatened to take my kids away. Then he kicked me out of the house. I came here ’cause I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Does he know where I live?”
Julia shook her head in slow, exaggerated turns.
He relaxed. At least the news was not all bad. But there had to be other places she could go. She had parents, no? Luciano crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, but now is not a good time for me. I’m busy with a very important piece.”
Her trembling doubled. “But …” Julia glanced quickly about the apartment, then stared intently at him. “Can’t I stay here? Just overnight? I promise I’ll be quiet … You won’t even know I’m here, unless you want to.”
She stood and advanced toward him with small steps. Julia puckered her lips in a way that was probably meant to be enticing, but her desperation spoiled her attractiveness.
Luciano waved his hand. “I can’t have any distractions right now. Besides, I did not agree to this kind of personal drama.”
Julia halted. Her jaw dropped as if he had just slapped her across the cheek. “What are you saying?”
“You need to fix this yourself.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “But … what am I supposed to do about him?”
Luciano shrugged. “Whatever you think best, but this is not my problem. Especially not today.”
“What about us?”
He pointed toward the door. “You can come back another day if you like, after this mess blows over.”
For several seconds, Julia turned left and right as though looking for a place to hide. As his demand set in, her expression changed from tearful sadness to boiling venom.
“You bastard!” she shouted. Julia swung an open hand at him, but Luciano deflected the slap. “You filthy, lying bastard.” She raised her arm a second time to hit him, but instead covered the tears starting to streak down her cheeks. Her shoulders heaved up and down as she trudged, sobbing, toward the exit.
Too bad it’s over, Luciano thought. The trysts had been fun.
His ex-lover halted in the kitchen. Between gasps, she asked, “Can you at least … give me some money? I left in a hurry … and I don’t have enough for cab fare back home.”
“It’s only three blocks to the subway station.”
He knew the response was cruel, and the force with which she slammed the door was not unexpected. He didn’t care. She had interrupted his most exciting project in years. A few minutes later, he peeked down at the street and spotted Julia begging strangers on the sidewalk for money.
After gulping a glass of wine, Luciano resumed his work, this time with a finer brush. He added wrinkles, shadows, and other final details that subtly but powerfully communicated his frustrations with never reaching the highest echelon of modern artists. He brightened and darkened many of the hues, then blurred the edges of the image. By the time he made the final brush stroke, he was too exhausted to fully appreciate what he had made. He slept heavily and easily that night.
The next day, after he had eaten and bathed, Luciano returned to the portrait. He stood before his creation and drank it in with fresh eyes. The rush of exhilaration folded his knees, and he dropped to the floor, weeping joyfully.
“My masterpiece,” he laughed. “I’ve created my masterpiece.”
***
Two months later, Luciano stood before an eager audience in Paris’s Gagosian Gallery. White walls and a half-dozen of his other creations flanked his centerpiece, which remained veiled beneath an emerald-colored silk cloth. The museum curator stood beside it as she finished her introduction.
“When you have seen it,” she said in French, “you will agree we are witnesses of the next mountain peak in art.”
She gestured toward Luciano. He turned on his wireless microphone and stepped forward to address the crowd of nearly a hundred patrons and art professionals. They welcomed him with calm applause.
Luciano was fluent in French. Regardless, he kept his reveal speech brief. The masterpiece could boast for itself.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Luciano Mideo and I present to you True Reflection.”
He pulled the silk cloth away from the canvas and easel. The disrobed self-portrait bore a striking resemblance to him, and its colors were vibrant yet harmonious. Both painted figure and painter beamed with pride. The audience gasped and crowded around each other to take pictures, and the museum curator fanned herself.
Luciano smiled into the lightning storm of camera flashes.
***
“Sweetie, would you like some toast?” Edward’s wife, Tiffany, asked from the far side of the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” Edward Humboldt said without looking up from the Nüday Art Review magazine on their kitchen island. His fork hovered over his poached eggs while he read one of the articles.
The toaster lever clicked. Edward’s wife circled around him and leaned against his back. As she read over his shoulder, her salt-and-pepper curls brushed against his neck. He tipped his head toward her and nuzzled her chin.
“I wish you’d eat your food while it’s warm. Read afterwards.”
“Okay,” he said out of habit, still ignoring his eggs.
“You seem awfully interested in that article.”
“Do you remember Mideo’s True Reflection?”
She squeezed his shoulder and headed back to the toaster. “It sounds familiar.”
Twenty-five years of marriage had taught Edward those words meant “no.”
His wife was only a casual observer of art; one with a good eye for it, but a casual observer all the same. He, on the other hand, had earned a reputation as one of the world’s preeminent art critics. His writings had appeared in numerous publications, and in a biography piece three years ago, Nüday called him the most respected critic in America.
Edward said, “Luciano Mideo did a piece that made quite an impression at Gagosian Paris. Elizaveta said it’s the best self-portrait since Rembrandt.” The comparison had surprised him when Elizaveta, a fellow critic, mentioned it. She had never been one to make exaggerated, blasphemous claims about new pieces.
“Anyway,” Edward continued after scanning the last paragraph of the article, “it’s apparently coming to New York next month.”
The toast sprang up. Tiffany pulled them onto a plate. “I suppose you want to go.”
“I do.” This would be his best opportunity to see it. They lived only an hour from the City. “I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.”
Despite her attention being a show of support to him rather than genuine interest, Edward told her more
about the piece. “I met the artist years ago. He showed promise then, and people are loving his work now. But apparently the fool made drastic changes to the painting despite its success. He added more detail. I’ve seen others make the same mistake. They become fixated on perfecting a successful piece rather than letting it live.”
Tiffany set the toast and butter between him and the magazine. “You’re not going just to rain on some poor artist’s parade, are you?” She kissed the top of his balding head.
“I’m honest, not a bully. I don’t set out to cut people down.” Edward pushed the magazine away and finally took a bite of his cold eggs. “Who knows? Maybe it is as spectacular as they say.”
***
Edward sat in the first row of chairs at the Museum of Modern Art, surrounded by dozens of painters, art writers, curators, and celebrities. He knew at least half of them personally. The new True Reflection was mounted on the museum’s wall behind a gold-and-amber curtain.
He checked his watch. Fourteen minutes late and still no sign of Luciano. How ignorant could he be? Reputation determined half of an artist’s success, and Luciano was risking his.
Edward covered his yawn with his handbill. The card advertised “The Rebirth of a Modern Masterpiece,” but the picture of the original painting intrigued him more than the promise. The piece displayed deftness and complexity of colors and strokes. The inclusion of the artist’s paint-stained apron added transparency. The dark, mottled background accentuated the sharp intensity in his eyes. Luciano had proven his skill, and he might one day join the ranks of modern masters. One day. For now, the evening’s red-carpet atmosphere seemed overblown.
Elizaveta, Edward’s old friend and fellow critic, leaned close from the seat beside him. “Is something disturbing you?”
“No. I’m just perplexed by the extravagance of this party. Two-hundred-dollar champagne? No less than twelve actors and Academy Award winners at an event without an auction?”
She flashed a tight, patronizing smile. “You have never liked rubbing elbows with celebrities.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse. “If you had seen this piece in person, you would understand the excitement. Small reproductions do it no justice.”
