The Art of Dying In Your Sleep

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.