Masterpiece

WORDS ALEXANDRA ALAVA

Splashes of paint ruin the unfinished art piece Sage is currently working on in her room. The whole floor and walls were covered in colors of reds, blues, violets, and every other color imaginable. Her canvas, twice her size, lay still on the floor as it fell from the stand as a result of her frustrations.

Something about not getting the color right. Or maybe it’s the shapes?

The whole space smelled of paint, lit by the natural glow of the moonlight with only a lamp in the shape of a brain lighting the room. Of course, she wouldn’t get the art right if her light could barely illuminate a corner of the space. Either way, she paces the room, the moon and the stars glistening above, her music filling the room with soft melodies while she trips over paint caps, cans, and brushes with every step.

It was a mess of a room, but it is an artist’s space.

Hours into the dead of the night, she sips what seems to be her fifth cup of warm coffee gone cold, an instant mix that doesn’t even have an ounce of caffeine enough to keep her awake. And yet she sips as she thinks of what her paint-covered brush should do next.

Maybe the snow-covered pine trees would work better? Or will a frozen lake look best with the snowy mountains that seem to be looming alone far away with no one to talk to, and nothing to do, but stay still as mountains do? Maybe a few wandering owls can accompany this lonely mountain, or perhaps hide it behind a thin cover of mist, waiting for someone to unravel its stories and legends.

Still, she continues to pace the room and stare at that lifeless piece of canvas with blobs of paint that doesn’t satisfy Sage’s taste. Still, she thinks… and thinks… and thinks. Deep into her thought, flashes of life come to mind – a pod of whales surfing the oceans, a woman manipulating the elements of the earth, to a whole different planet that thrives with unnatural species roaming and hunting and feeding. None, however, gives her the idea that will spark life in her. And so she thinks.

She releases her hold on her brush, making more of a mess she isn’t too bothered to clean. With a deep, heavy sigh, she retired to her room, laying on the blanket she laid on the floor earlier this day knowing that she would be too unbothered to clean off the paint staining her skin or change into cleaner, fresher clothes. So there she lies, on an old ratty blanket with enough paint on her to deem her another art piece of hers.

~

“Leave it, thanks.” Sage voices out to three men carrying wooden boxes full of her artwork. They placed everything in a neat pile by the corner inside an empty two-floor building, with nothing but empty white walls, lined with ceiling-mounted lighting, emitting a warm neutral glow that makes the vacuous space feel somewhat home-like.

Spotless. Untainted, pure.

No flaws mark these walls. Not a single imperfection. Sage thought.

“Until I got here.” She whispered to herself as she sighs, walking over to the crates, and unloading each piece of canvas wrapped with delicate paper, sitting on top of a cushion of bubble wrap. She places them all on the floor, careful not to trip over any of it for glass-framed pieces, and loosely rolled up canvases inside long tubes dress the floor. She began to work.

Slowly, the bland white walls are filled with both life and death. Paintings of bliss and pain cover the walls like a story waiting to unfold, waiting for its reader to take its bait. Slowly, pieces of her work are hung against the walls. All put away for display, all in different fragments. Sketches, paintings, sculptures, and murals.

For hours and days, she worked. Moving pieces here and there. Hanging frames and setting up statues. Adjusting the way that one light hits the artwork, and even as far as adjusting the room’s air circulation. Sage set the whole gallery herself, refusing help from even her closest. She created all of this, so it’s up to her to do it, making everything as perfect as it can be. Calls were made, ads were posted, and friends invited.

One by one, each remnant transformed the vacant space into a place where each step you take, will either embrace you with its warmth or suffocate you with its icy grasp. Either way, it makes you feel wanting to succumb to its hold, letting its gentle grasp ease into you.

~

“They would be proud of you, Sage.”

They. He meant Sage’s family.

After weeks of careful design, shaping the place to fit and to connect each piece of art, as if invisible strings made of life start at one, and continue as it goes through every artwork. Life, threading all the pieces together until it meets the last. Death.

But death is not the end. At least, not for Sage.

“They are not here and they never appreciated art, Eric. You know this.” Sage replies, sipping a glass of white wine, looking from the balcony of the second floor.

Glancing around the place, the sweet aroma of the fermented grapes, the oceanic fragrance that lulls you as you read a book with the waves crashing on shore, and the distant chatter of the people as they critique the pieces or talk amongst themselves fill up the once emptied space.

The building opened its doors to the public just a few hours ago. Sage cuts the red flashy ribbon by the entrance with golden scissors as her inner circle line the front of the small crowd, awaiting to see what ’s beyond its doors. In one snip, the ribbon falls, her friends cheer, and the crowd applauses. Sage steps aside, greeting each and every one of them as the guards open the door to the gallery.

As soon as you enter, the warm aura of the space embraces you. Welcoming you for you to walk inside and see the life pouring into this place. The first areas are lined with pieces that make you feel pleasure and ecstasy as if this place is where you want to stay for everlasting bliss. Heaven on earth it seems.

Pieces made draw you into them. Light pours from the ceiling to the ground, bright colors dress the walls. Sights of bright days, warm summers, and breezy springs highlight this area. You feel as if you’re bathing under the glow of the warm sun. The songs of the water and the beats of the waves draw you deeper into this fantasy. Curated, to make you feel alive.

“You should go. Enjoy my life’s work.” Sage utters, drowns what’s left of her drink, and walks away, not until she hears Eric mutter, “If you can count nudes and barbed wire art.”

Yes, the warmth welcomes, but the cold shivers.

As you walk further into the gallery, the warmness of it all fades, giving way to the dark, broken, and damaged pieces. The opposite of the embrace you felt at the start. Here, there is only you, in front of a thousand haunting pieces. One look makes a chill run down your spine.

Snowy mountains, dark forests, frozen lakes, and the void cover this area of the gallery. Broken parts of the naked body binded in wires covered with spikes. Blood drips all over.

In here, you’re engulfed in a thick cover of shadow. Goosebumps trail your skin, and your heartbeat quickens. Your steps slow as you look around, and all you can see is the dark and hear only silence. And in every glance, your subconscious tries to pull you away from this horrendous place, your feet begging to walk away, feeling yourself to look the other way, to go back to the light, and yet, once you look deeper, you actually find yourself wanting the darkness more. Somehow, in this deep abyss, you find yourself wanting more.

She leaves, glancing past unknown faces, and listening to whispered conversations. Servers going around carrying glasses of champagne and trays of various appetizers entertain the guests as they blatantly ignore the framed pieces surrounding them. Overlooking the strokes, textures, values, and time put into each piece.

This is a waste of time, she thought. None of these people are here for the art. ~

Under the blanket of the comfortable silence of the night, Sage stares into nothingness but at the one corner of the wall that isn’t marked with charcoal sketches and ripped pages of old books. For what reason? None at all. It looked pretty, vintage, and quirky, she thought as she stuck them up. Photographs of the sun and the moon, of the birds and the waves and the trees. Pictures of passersby, the food, local shops, and her memories all cover the wall. There to look at to either see a glimpse of the past or just there collecting dust. Who knows, right?

Minutes pass by, with the deafening sound of silence. The moon starts to set to let the sun rise on the horizon. Sage sits at the top of her bed, beady eyes start to blur her vision. Her mind is a whirlwind of chaos, and one by one, tears start to form just under her eyes, and yet she lays there still as a rock. Waiting for each of those tears to drop and stain her shirt, the familiar sensation comes rushing back, that feeling as if your body refuses to give you air. Your heart constricts as if it all but gives up pumping the body the blood it needs. Your chest, buried under tons of bricks, forced to cave in. The strong urge to claw your skin off, as if you’re a prisoner of yourself.

Soon the first tear fell, leaving a trail of wetness behind as Sage moved closer to the edge of the bed. The faint lingering scent of coffee, of earth, and of the forest from the burnt-down candle doesn’t seem to calm her down. The space, illuminated by only the light from the setting moon doesn’t feel serene at all. The clock ticks as her bed creaks while she moves, it feels like a ticking bomb. Tears threaten to fall more every second.

Reaching the table on the side of her bed, Sage whispers, “Just one.”

~

Nearing the end of her art exhibit, people still come and go. For Sage, all they are but a blur in a sea of frames. This whole exhibition was meant to tell a tale. To find each piece, and find how it fits the puzzle. But no one even dares to try. Walking past the tainted walls, looking over each fragment she put on display. Sage sighs, shaking her head in defeat despite setting up an art gallery is quite literally her life’s goal.

Dreaming of creating art, from sunrise to sundown, and even then, working through the long night, accompanied by only her thoughts and dreams. Going into her headspace flowing with feelings, designs, and values. A world created by her and for her. A place she can get lost in when reality seems too real. It’s a place she calls her own.

Everything she dreamed she wanted to be real, and so she made it happen. Years of thinking, careful design, and even reckless moves all add up to these few weeks of where she is now.

She was proud of herself. Impressed at what she managed to create – a whole building full of art. And yet, something was amiss. Despite being surrounded by her creations and the fulfilling sense of achievement in her heart, there is something missing, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Sage walks along the corridors for the last few times before the building starts to close its doors, signaling the edge of the cliff, and preparing to pack up to end this journey she started. Not many are left. Just a few hours before she has to retire to her place, and going back the next day to pack and ship the sold pieces, and bringing back the ones left, for her to store in the comforts of her home. To wait for the next keen buyer, intent on decorating their multi-million homes.

Lost in her thoughts, she stumbles her way past the gallery, not seeing what’s about to hit her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see – Are you… Sage? Aster Sage?”

“Iam. And you are?” “Andy.”

An art show, worthy of kings, queens, and knights and lords.

The girl, Andy, flustered, her freckled-covered cheeks starting to stain with red as she realized who she just bumped into. Her eyes seem to glint with curiosity and fascination, stars dancing within those deep brown eyes. Her face was sculpted so pure and beaming with energy. It’s as if the creator poured too much of life into this girl. Her soul so bright Sage swears her aura overpowers her small frame, wrapping her in glimpses of light.

Andy smiles wide, like a toddler with a candy, licking away with no care in the world but at the moment she is now. There’s a touch of bird in her. Like a songbird. Elegance in her voice, power in her words. Captivating all who listens, leaving Sage in a trance.

“I’m sorry again, but I can’t help but ask… why did you decide to use those… those uhm… ah, the barbed wires to wrap your sculptures? And why are some of them tainted with gold? I mean, it shows the silver lining, isn’t it? And, and the way you arranged your pieces. Wow. That is brilliant, I mean precious than a pearl’s prized luster.

Andy continues to go on and on about this whole entire art gallery as if she made the pieces herself and set them up exactly how it is now. She talks like she made each stroke herself. Like she entered Sage’s mind and held the brush herself. She speaks as if she knows the story behind every painting, and yet questions the choices made to finish it.

“Who are you?” Sage utters more to herself than anyone.

“This, all of these pieces, they’re not just art, are they?” Andy realizes, eyes widening as she stares at Sage. She sees it. Andy saw past. “This whole gallery…

It ’s you”.

She talks a lot, Sage thought. Just like songbirds. A blue jay maybe, or perhaps she’s more of a wren where her notes fall and crash like the waterfall, unstoppable, unyielding. Giving way to a glimpse in this girl’s soul – radiance, beauty, and courage swirling around in a pool that reflects the light, making it look more