The Country scene was as peaceful as it was empty. It bled tranquility from the edges of the
painting. The sky was an infinite,
featureless blue. To the foreground of
the painting, a hedgerow marched, right to left, into the distance; its stark,
leafless thicket broken sporadically by a tall, naked tree. Beyond the hedge there lay a scene of natural
beauty that stretched to the horizon: Rolling fields demarcated by greener hedgerows
that were dotted with individual trees or small groups clustered into small
woods; and in the distance, a shimmering river that wended its way to become
lost in the valleys that separated the sleepy hillsides.
It would all have been perfect
– a paean to the stillness and the serenity of the countryside – were it not for
the devouring void that burned through the centre of the picture. A sinkhole in the painting’s reality had
opened up – a perfectly circular whirlpool of entropy that sent ripples
outwards from its black heart. The impact
of the void was heightened by a Trompe-l'œil
effect, which made the black hole appear at once living and vital, but also bereft
of life.
The void was consuming
everything.
“A masterpiece,” commented the
observer, a man named Richard Calthorpe.
He was viewing the painting from a hospital bed, the kind of bed one would
lie in when being transported to an operating theatre. His black hair
contrasted with his pale skin and his malnourished frame, and he was hooked up
to a plasma bag and other apparatus which assisted his bodily functions. Both patient and painting were situated in a
spacious, pristine, airy room that was lit with beams of light that poured
through the gaps in large, half covered windows.
“And this one is also called
‘Dying in Your Sleep’?” asked Calthorpe to the smartly dressed man who stood
beside his bed.
“Indeed,” confirmed the man,
whose name was Edward Borman, “as are all of the paintings in this collection.”
Borman was slim of frame and sported a thin and greying head of hair, but his eyes
blazed and his demeanour was commanding.
Calthorpe considered for a
moment and then asked another question. “Who was the artist? What were his
circumstances?”
Borman glanced down at Calthorpe
before answering in an unwavering voice: “The artist was a young woman called
Hope Shawcross, who was tortured to death over a number of days as this
painting was created. She died of her
injuries, in her sleep, just after I decided that this painting was complete.”
Borman looked at Calthorpe
again, his expression harsh. “I take it
those details don’t make you squeamish,” he said pointedly, “You are playing
your full part in this project, and I assure you that Ms Shawcross was a
willing party to her fate. I
commissioned her painting, and she agreed the circumstance under which she
would create the Magnum Opus of her existence on Earth.
“She died for her art, in
order for her life to have meaning.”
In response, Calthorpe croaked
a few inaudible words before coughing and clearing his throat. “Yes… yes I
understand,” he intoned, “but still the details are somewhat shocking…”
“Perhaps,” conceded Borman,
“but as a volunteer for this experiment yourself, it is probable that your fate
will be considered no less shocking.
Speaking of which…”
Borman made a small ‘come
hither’ gesture towards the doorway of the immaculately maintained room, and Hope
Shawcross’s painting was swiftly removed upon its easel by two assistants,
while two more placed a new work of art in the same space as the previous one
had occupied.
For a few moments the two men
contemplated the brush stroked scene that was now before them.
It was a view, from above, of
a man that stood upon the edge of a steep cliff. The man was of sleek frame, was naked from
the waist upwards, and his skin seemed to glow against a pitch dark background.
He was leaning forward, his heals
lifting and his arms spread wide as he launched himself from the grey rocks at
the edge of a cliff; he was diving into emptiness.
The cliff from which the man
departed extended downwards forever. And
the blackness that pressed upon it - and into which the man was diving - was
similarly infinite. As with Hope’s
painting it was the void that appeared the stronger part of the image, making
the other elements fragile, transitory and ephemeral.
“And this one is also called
‘Dying in Your Sleep’,” stated Borman as he studied the painting, “but this one
is your vision.”
“Yes,” said Calthorpe with a
slight nod, “This is what I have seen, in the dreams you have induced.”
“Hmm,” Borman mused, “the
drugs have done their job well. This is
a powerful and disturbing piece.”
At this the smartly dressed
business man turned away from the painting, and he gazed at the partly covered
windows, temporarily lost to the world. “But is it the vision that I will see…”
he whispered to himself. Borman raised a
skeletal, callous covered hand and studied it with a look of fascination and
disgust before inhaling sharply.
You have surpassed yourself
Calthorpe,” he told the bed ridden artist, “this will be the finest work you
will ever produce.
“And now it is time for your
medication. ”
Calthorpe’s inhalation was
long, and his lip trembled slightly. “And
when I sleep this time,” he asked, “will I awaken?”
“Only if it is decided there
is work still to be done upon your painting,” Borman answered, “and that
decision is mine.”
Calthorpe grimaced, and opened
his mouth to speak, but then the two assistants reappeared. This time their task was to remove him. The artist regarded his commissioner for one
last time, his expression one of someone who had missed his chance to say a
last goodbye, before the door was shut. And
Borman was left to consider another Magnum Opus of which he had sponsored the
creation.
As Borman scrutinized the
fatalistic image, a shaft of sunlight pierced the partially open curtains and
temporarily illuminated the figure that was about to plunge into oblivion.
Was this a sign? Did this show
that the artist’s work was done? If so Borman would give the appropriate
instructions for the artist’s next dose.
And then it would be time for Calthorpe to discover the authenticity of
his drug induced vision.
Borman glanced back into the
sunlight, and then turned again towards the painting.
After a moment’s further
deliberation, he made his decision.
