In the Arms of an Artist

Veritas, the literary folio of the Crusader, the official student publication of Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan.

Let me share my favorite short story I have submitted for this publication.

In the arms of an artist

by: Mash

He walked slowly barefooted along the alley of a deserted market place, and as the crisp cold of the night strikes, he braced himself to warm his freezing senses. His torn shirt sways like the tormented wings of an ill vampire and there was nothing with him except his flesh and bones resembling of what he called a body without a soul. His balding head projects a man at 50’s but he’s just on his mid 30’s and his aging veins were embossed on his arms. The lifeless night has been a conclusion of all damnation that reached upon him; half dead, wandering like a ghost. He searched for something to eat, shelter, something that could make himself feel like human. In some corner there was a pile of garbage that marketers might have thrown during the day’s commerce-chaos. He headed towards it and stared around.

Lucky are those cockroach for they are feasting happily while he, a human, is more animal than an ape. Seeing those pests have lost his appetite to survive, he was envious of the smallest things around him, dead or alive. He envied the living for they see the world with their one eye while he with his two. He was corrupted by the unpleasantness of life at an early age of 5. One day he just found himself without a name; there was no family and have never been into a place called home. He sees the world as the abyss of uncertainties where reality is all but brutality. There is no such thing as peace because peace is only for the dead. When you die there is no more world to look upon to because we’ll be all stripped naked into our coffins. He envied the dead because they feel no pain nor sorrow, nor happiness.

            Once, he experienced what to be at the highest peak of luxurious life. He worked as an artist and he portrayed life in two-dimension. But even in abstraction and distortion, the bitterness was still implicitly depicted in a dimensionless manner. All of the sudden, like a storming plague, all his possessions were gone with the wind because of a deviating artwork which portrays God as a mere stranger. For him, such is an immortal work because it is what he believed in; that God is human itself. He keeps on asking- how could man know the face of Jesus when nobody had seen him? And why do they call men pagans who worship nature when the statue of Mary is made up of wood? For the high priests it was an undisputable act of heresy that is punishable by death. He had made use of his freedom to express but it was constrained and there is nothing he could do to appeal for he will be fighting against humanity, the church, and God Himself. He was imprisoned for so many years and this is now the outcome of what he believed in. If this is the punishment of God, then so be it.

            A few yards not so far away from him, he saw a rectangular piece of scrap that leaned on the garbage piles.  Its white surface reminds him of canvas that he used to play with his colored brushes. He grabbed the thing to make a perfect bed out of it as he will be lying on the dampened ground. As he examined it but a split of second became a decade span of time when he recognized what was on it. Alas! Indeed it was a canvas where a great work resides! The subject for whom the Highest have worn clothes like that of a commoner or a peasant scream a question to every viewer ‘what if God is one of us?!’ The work he brought to the vivid chaos of reality is the work that had shattered crucifix of humanity. It is a big question on how does his painting brought to be in this unlikable museum? It has been decades since his artwork was confiscated by the high priest. “Maybe”, he thought, “they can’t bare the sight of such mockery”.  He just gave a sigh and mournfully swears to the darkness that someday this great work will be hanged for everyone to admire such rare view. He wiped the sides to clean the rusted iron that framed the canvas and gradually clearing off the smudges that covered the surface of the colors. Now the view is clear, though it has been yellowed by dusts.

            He can’t explain the passion he has for such painting and how glad he was when he found his last treasure; it was like in a state of euphoria in a middle of war and all he could do is to keep staring at it. At any moment from now he would be looking at the world no more. He could sense the coming of Death; the wind blows like the kiss of poison creeping on his body. He gave a laconic expression upon seeing that the sun has still half-way to go before striking morn. Lucky for him if he could still live the dawn. He falls asleep fast as he carried his great work by the arms…

            There is a long queue of well-know painters, writers, and even students on tour to visit and take a look at one magnificent masterpiece. Since it portrays a controversy that is inevitable by debates and arguments, it has become a famous masterpiece of the century. In a synopsis below the work, it says:

            “…I have been one true artist. It had died in my own wisdom but this, I know, will be born again lying in my arms…”    

“Quentin”