Wildflowers

2019-2020 by: Michaela Burton

The studio was always freezing early in the morning. The hard wooden floor chilled my feet through my wool socks, making me shudder as I shuffled to the thermostat and quickly turned it up to a durable setting. Knowing it would take a while yet for the studio to warm up, I set off to make myself a pot of coffee. My hands moved sluggishly as I poured the ground up beans into the filter, watching the white paper disappear under a dark pile of caffeinated blessings. As the studio warmed up and the coffee brewed, I looked around the large room and held back a disappointed sigh. Strewn about every nook and cranny of the place were mediocre paintings, some so ‘meh’ that they were barely fit to hang on the walls of cheap cafes. It had been nearly a full year since I sold my last piece. Even that one had been only moderately better than my usual work though. It was a photorealistic depiction of the pigeons that liked to roost on my balcony, a dozen of them perched on the iron railing as the morning sun rose up behind them, catching the blues and greens hidden amongst their chalky feathers. The man that bought it said it was a gift for his young son, who was for some reason obsessed with the gray, numerous birds. I didn’t object, or really care as to why he was buying it. I was just happy to have made something that someone thought was worth a few bucks. Now, a year later, and no further paintings sold, the studio was becoming crowded with my failure. I had to wade through an ocean of city skylines and shove aside mountainous paintings of abstract geometric shapes to find a fresh, blank canvas. It seemed to mock me as I placed it on the easel, saying, What kind of useless crap are you going to paint today? I grimaced and turned away to get my coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help lift my spirits. When I returned, sipping on the dark, hot drink, I began to scan the studio for some kind of inspiration. I had already painted almost everything inside the place. My piece of the bathroom toilet had been particularly inspired, I thought. The porcelain really captured the light in a special way. You can only paint a toilet once before having to turn in your artistic badge though. As I was contemplating doing yet another Jackson Pollock mimicry, there was a loud knock on the door. The harsh rapping echoed through the studio, startling the pigeons nesting outside, causing them to take off in a tornado of ashy feathers.

My heart skipped a beat and I nearly spilled my coffee onto the canvas. I never have visitors, unless it’s an Amazon delivery driver giving me another package of canvases and oil paint, so a knock on the door so early in the morning with such urgency was a little unnerving. I clutched my robe tighter around myself, trying to appear as decent as possible as I crossed over to the door. After just a moment’s hesitation I decided to be on the safe side and stood on my tiptoes to peer through the peephole first. Perhaps someone had heard of my second-rate art and was here to put a stop to the whole mess, but to my surprise as I scanned the hallway I saw no one. Through the small circular pane of glass all I could see was the dim, quiet hallway. Probably someone knocked on the wrong door, I thought, but as I was about to pull away I noticed a bright spot of color in the corner of my field of vision. Curiosity tempted, I opened up the door to the hallway and looked to where I had noticed the color. Sitting on my door mat was a gorgeous vase of flowers. Branches of lilac, a kaleidoscope of wildflowers, and stalks of golden grain were held together in a beautiful glass vase. It looked like something a medieval woman would put together after walking through an enchanted forest. Still surprised, but now pleasantly so, I knelt down to examine the bouquet closer, looking for some card or tag that would clue me in as to who my apparent secret admirer was. As my fingers preened the delicate foliage, it quickly became clear that there was no card, no sign as to who may have left this gift for me. For a moment, I considered running down the hallway. Whoever left these couldn’t have possibly gotten very far, but there was something satisfying about leaving this a mystery for now. Something almost romantic. Staring at the lush purples, blues, and yellows of the bouquet, I felt struck with a wave of inspiration. As I carried the vase back into the apartment I took a deep breath, allowing the soft fragrance of the sweet blossoms to fill my senses. I set the vase on a small wooden table near the blank canvas where the morning sunlight that was still filtering through the window could illuminate the flowers in a lovely warm glow. Pale golden light refracted through the glass of the vase and cast an array of small rainbows onto the oak wood, each one shimmering vibrantly. It was perfect. Whoever my mystery admirer was, they certainly sent me a wonderful subject to paint, and at the perfect time too. Grabbing my oils, I set to work mixing the paint, as I tried to recreate the hues and tones of the subject before me. My heart raced with more excitement for my work than I had felt in over a year. My brush seemed to fly effortlessly across the canvas, hiding the white fabric with the colors of springtime and wilderness. As the colors spread out before me, my mind couldn’t help but wander again to the medieval woman I imagined picking these flowers. What a lovely and calm morning it must have been, the ends of her skirts getting soaked with dew as she wandered the fields of wildflowers. I usually needed music while I painted but now there seemed to be no need. Melodies conjured themselves in my mind, flutes and chimes singing along with the rhythm of the brush beating against the canvas.

Before me, the flowers were slowly being recreated, born from the paint. Rosey pink, straw bulbs added blushes of color that offset the whites and greens of the floral buttons, and the wild lavender and wheat stood tall like maypoles. I felt like I was becoming lost in my work, wandering just like the woman who some day long ago must have. Entranced by the beauty of it, my mind hummed with satisfaction. As I began to add the reflection of light through the glass vase I noticed something out of place about my painting. During my artistic fury I seemed to have painted a long shadow across the bottom of the canvas that didn’t quite match up with anything else in the picture. At first I thought it must be the shadow of the table, but it was too long, seeming to stretch from something out of sight at the back of the painting. Confused, but not too perturbed, I set to work painting over it, fixing the shadow and bringing everything back into focus. I couldn’t help but feel a little amused. How long had it been since I got so caught up in my work that I lost track of what I was painting? Not since college, I imagined. With the shadow corrected, I went back to working on the glass, adding the splashes of rainbow colors that seemed to shimmer with life of their own. With a giddy sort of hope, I began to believe that this piece might just end up being the best piece I had ever created. Something that would certainly bring me not only cash, but artistic praise. The satisfaction I hoped would come with my painting of the pigeons would finally happen here, with these beautiful flowers. As I was beginning to detail the grains of wood on the table, I noticed with a sort of dazed wonder that the shadow had returned, and with it, the edge of what appeared to be a goat’s hoof, ivory white with rusty red fur. I know I didn’t paint you.. I mused to myself, pausing with my brush pressed against the canvas. The hoof was polished and gleaming, as if it were carved from a flawless chunk of marble. The fur above it was lucious and flowing, the same red color as the last glimpses of sunset. Certainly something of this quality wouldn’t be something I would just forget about. A sort of nervous chuckle escaped from my lips as I began to paint over the caprine limb. Either I was deeper into my own artistic frenzy than I thought, or I was suffering from some sort of short term memory loss.Sometimes I would forget where I left my house keys or if I turned the coffee machine off, but never anything to this extreme. For a moment I wondered if I needed a break, but as I gazed at the charming painting coming together before me, I knew I couldn’t leave it unfinished. I continued painting with no other lapses in memory until my wrist and forearm were starting to cramp and my stomach growled, no longer satisfied with just the coffee. After making myself a cold cut sandwich and scarfing it down with a few aspirin and a chaser of coffee I returned to my work, standing back to admire it for a moment. Already it was so beautiful, and I was working faster than I ever had before. With any luck it would be finished before I needed sleep, if I continued at this pace.

On the canvas, the vase sat glistening on the polished oak table, the grains of the wood swirling playfully underneath its cargo of wildflowers. The flowers were a symbol of life and color in the otherwise dark room I had painted them in. Behind them, gentle, warm light shone in through an open window, and billowing cornsilk curtains seemed to gesture gracefully to the vibrant bouquet and the figure standing behind them. The figure standing behind them... My mouth became dry and my throat closed up on me, making me feel like I would choke. Behind the vase, leaning over to smell the flowers, was a satyr. His ebony horns curled around hairy, elongated ears that caught the light, and as my eyes wandered down the painting they caught with his. A deep, hypnotizing, chocolate brown- they locked with mine, filled with a playful, mischievous kind of lust. I felt as if those eyes were seeing into me, understanding me, wanting me. I knew I couldn’t have painted eyes like that, a being like him, but then again... Hadn’t I? My mind seemed to grow fuzzy and I had to cling to the easel so I wouldn’t fall, my face nearly pressing against that of the mythological creature. Thoughts raced through my mind like wild rabbits. Hadn’t I been in wonder of the beauty of those wildflowers, mesmerized by ideas of wilderness and springtime, enchanted by the songs of flutes, chimes, and the beating of my brush? Could I maybe have created him as much with my mind as my paintbrush? I couldn’t possibly have.. and yet at the same time, I couldn’t pull myself away from those eyes. The satyr’s lips were pulled up into a slight smirk and I noticed he had straightened up, no longer smelling the flowers. Tall and confident, he was holding out his hand to me. People gathered around for the grand unveiling of the new gallery piece, murmuring in speculation. There were many rumors surrounding this new painting. Where it had come from, who had created it, and who the museum purchased it from were all facts left unclear. A decent crowd had formed and people pushed their way to the front, all pining for their turn to examine the mysterious piece of artwork.Surrounded by an oaken wood frame, the painting depicted a handsome satyr and his lover, embracing behind a bouquet of vivid wildflowers. Stalks of grain and branches of lilac tastefully hid the otherwise naked subjects. Already theories and artistic interpretations were bouncing around the observers. The subject of the woman’s face was of hot debate. Some argued that she was swooning, head over heels in love with her charming, goatish prince. Others insisted that the expression on the woman’s face was something more like muted fear, or an unwillingness to be embraced by this creature. No matter which way his bride felt, the satyr held his lover tight, his hands wrapped around hers and his face smiling in satisfaction.