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A Short Story

Pictures in the Gallery
-- by GP Randel

      There is a knock at the door.
      "Stay, Sasha." My German Shepherd companion wistfully obeys.
      I get up from my desk and walk the length of the house.
                  "Oh, hello. Isn't it a bit late?"
      He says nothing, but motions a gloved hand to his car. He has little regard for the schedules of others. It is always like this when he takes me to see his work.
      He owns a loft above a warehouse, downtown. Large plate glass windows afford him ample light during the day and a breathtaking view of the L.A. skyline at night. He shares it with no one except the invited few. He lives at one end of the loft and paints at the other. In between, he displays his paintings.
      He hands me a glass of dark red wine. Long ago, I attributed my friend's idiosyncrasies to his being a painter. Nights especially, during those long nocturnal hours when his hands race his eyes to the canvas, he will at times do anything to avoid sleep. Of late he has taken to maquillage. His face and neck are covered in shiny white. Pink, lavender, and gold glitter highlights his high cheekbones and cascades down his cheeks. A deep sepia tone coats his clearly defined lips. His dark, round eyes are shaded in an exaggerated display of purple-tinged black, and have retreated even further than usual into their sockets. His thick, receding black hair is combed straight back.
      We walk towards the gallery to view the paintings I know so well. I am generally calm and sociable when I arrive, yet even after all these years my pulse quickens, my breath catches in my throat, and a sharp pain pounds in my head. I assure myself that these are only two-dimensional oils on canvas.
      The brutality of the first painting frightens me. My eyes rivet to the young boy doubled over on the ground, the man, whip poised, standing over him. The look on that man's face is one I will never forget. The artist paints with such detail. No model could have posed those emotions. I sip my wine.
      In the next picture, the artist demonstrates his command of light and dark. An old man lounges just inside the shadows of an open garage. A small boy is running away, shouting at the old man's wife standing off to one side, out of view of the old man, rubbing her hands deep into her apron. The young boy points at the old man as he shouts, who appears to slink even further into the gloom. I can never quite say why this rendering leaves me filled with such disgust.
      By now, my artist friend is feeling lively and refills our glasses in silence. We find ourselves standing before the next painting.
      The profile of a young man stares back at me. He sits at a desk with one hand on a telephone, gazing intently at a photograph of a beautiful, young woman with long red hair lying supine against a tree. His fingers trace the contour of her face, her neck, her breasts, her thighs. Looking at the painting, it's impossible to tell if the young man is about to make a call, or if he has just hung up. My artist friend, I know, is sworn to secrecy. I try to find an answer to my question in the young man's eyes and in his posture. His eyes are sad, but he does not seem overcome by sadness. His back though straight, inclines slightly forward. A strange sense of loss sweeps over me. The young man is fortunate; he has the benefit of youth.
      Finally, we come to the painter's masterpiece. This painting strikes me with such force, I must take a few steps back from it. Three young men are in a room by themselves. Empty beer bottles sit on a table; some lie on the floor. One man is seated in a chair, laughing and slapping his thigh. He laughs at a second man standing before him imploring him with a look of sheer terror as the third man, grinning, holds him from behind and presses a hunting knife to his throat. The knife, shiny and razor sharp, presses against the soft white skin of the exposed neck. The total horror which this painting awakens is almost more than I can bear. My artist friend, seeing my reaction, smiles broadly.
      Fortunately, we are at the end of the collection. I am worn out and ready to go home. My friend puts his arm around my shoulder and together we walk into his studio. He leads me to the far corner where a sheet covers a canvas resting on an easel. Motioning me to stand still, he removes the sheet with a deliberate flourish. I shake uncontrollably; my knees go weak. A man in middle age sits at a desk in the center of the painting. The light of a Tiffany lamp warms his face as he stares at a sheet of paper. The page is as blank as the look on his face. I panic and must draw deep breaths to keep from suffocating. With a concerned look in his eyes, my artist friend motions me to follow him as he pulls out his car keys. My mouth is dry. The subject plays over and over in my mind: the hesitation of the pencil in his trembling hand, the sweat on his brow, the death in his eyes.
      My friend lets me out onto the rainy sidewalk and waits until I unlock my door before pulling away. I watch the taillights of his car until they disappear around the corner. I make my way to my room. The familiar tinkle of dog tags greets me. I reach out and stroke her behind the ears with both hands.
      "It is good to be home with you too, Sasha." She curls up on the carpet behind me.
      I sit down at my desk and look outside; dark is giving way to gray. I switch on the Tiffany lamp and slip out a blank sheet of paper from the stack in the bottom drawer of my desk. I run my hand across my face. I feel something odd and pause to examine the fleck of glitter on my forefinger. Suddenly, my pencil races to keep up with my thoughts as I sketch the opening narrative. I am desperate to bring the two characters together, to share their conversation. I pause at the first line of dialogue I write:
                "Today is a good day to live," he said.