Canvas by Paul Elard Cooley SMASHWORDS EDITION * * * * * PUBLISHED BY: Shadowpublications.com on Smashwords Canvas Copyright © 2010 by Paul Elard Cooley All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. * * * * * Canvas I guess it's been a long day and a little refreshment is in order. There. That should do it. I know you're a bit dehydrated, but this should help. Here. Watch me paint. It'll help pass the time. Oh, you see my canvas. Beautiful, isn't it? It's still taking shape, but you should be able to see where it's going. The images, colors. See the texture in the center? I never liked mix media. I shudder at the very thought of those gaudy, empty pieces by Dus: just cheese-cloth and burlap atop one another amidst swirls of color. Utter bollocks if you ask me. Instead, I like the canvas itself to be the mixed media, so to speak. A painter's canvas can be anything, you know. I once painted an entire mural on a horse. Oh, you remember that, do you? Yes, I rather think it turned out quite well. The difficulty with a painting on hair is that you have to make perfect strokes, deciding whether to follow the grain, or go against it. Those strokes where you do go against the grain, you have to pay close attention and purposefully flip up each individual hair. It took hours. Fortunately, I knew I'd have plenty of time. Oh, this is fun. I've not had someone to talk to about this in quite a while. But as you can see, this canvas is quite a bit different than the horse. Here. Look at my color board. Yes. It's quite unique. Actually, since I started using this medium, I've gone through many color boards. I tan them myself. Mixing the colors upon them for the paint is soothing. Quite soothing. When I've an image in mind, I sometimes spend hours getting the colors just right. And what better material for the color board than leather? Hmm. Speaking of, I"m going to have to color this a little more. It's too...well...bright. Here, just a shade of heavy brown. There. Yes, that's more like it. So... What was I saying? Oh, right. Forgive me. It's been an oppressively long day. Most painters don't give their canvas a second look. They purchase them. They paint upon them. They sell, or try to sell, their works, thinking of the canvas as nothing more than a container for their art. I, on the other hand, believe finding the right canvas, constructing it, creating it, is as important as the image upon it. I think, in time, this will truly set me apart from other great artists. Hmm? Oh, no, I'm not that arrogant. I don't believe I'm in the same realm as Dahli, or Da Vinci. No, I'm too experimental to compare even to Salvadore. It's my medium you see. The canvas. God provides me canvas. I provide God art. The horse was not the first creature He procured for me. When I was a young man, all of 13, I found a sickly tortoise by the side of the road. Tortoises are not native to England, but plenty of people keep them as pets. I imagine someone tired of it and loosed it, or it somehow managed to leave its aquarium. The thing was half dead. Knowing my parents would not approve of me bringing a live animal home, I snapped its neck. Knowing my father would regard this as some sort of science experiment, I told him I wanted to see inside the shell. My father reluctantly agreed. With a pair of snips, he severed the flesh and we peeled away the top half of the shell. The stench was incredible. Despite the blood and muck, I was enamored of the soft tan color of the shell's interior. Although he told me I was forbidden to take the remains into the house, we came to an agreement. By his instruction, we placed the shell into a mild solution of bleach and let it sit. For an entire week, I would venture home from school to check on its progress. I noted daily how the tortoise's flesh at the edges of the shell seemed to dissolve more and more over time. And every time I pulled the shell from the solution, the shell became more tan, veering toward creme. And the more and more I stared at it, the more I felt an image forming at my mind's edge. And I fought the urge to ignore my father's warning and take the beautiful remains into the house. But instead, I abstained and waited until all the flesh was dissolved. And once father pronounced it well, I took the shell to my room. I was very interested in art then as well. However, the paintings I made on paper, on canvas, were utter rubbish. Although my parents repeatedly told me I was exceptional for my age, the images were crude, inexorably unrealistic. And being that I was somewhat of a literalist, a philosophy that has followed me well into adulthood, the idea of painting unrealistic and so called impressionist twaddle was so very abhorrent to me. But that day, the day I released that creature from its shell, I released myself from mine. I had always struggled with image, you see. Landscapes and simple countryside renditions were not enough. It was not enough to simply place an animal or a farmer in the frame of the land and call it art. And as I have already said, some macabre swirl of color and shape was not really a favorite of mine. The inside of the shell had been bleached the almost to the color of canvas. I studied it for nearly an hour before I dared even mix the paints. And as I stared, the canvas seemed to stare back at me. And all at once, I realized I saw God's face. It was then I felt inspired, called, in fact, to give it shape and color. It was my first real canvas, although I didn't yet have the skill to properly carve the face of God. I have improved greatly since then, as has the scope of my medium. But most do not think much of my work. Have you read my reviews? Those rubbish bastards in the paper. Hang on a second, this bit is tricky. Ah, there we go. See how I played that single strand of hair? Slowly twining it into the color. Yes, that's what makes me different, I think. The careful attention to detail. Now, back to reviewers. Bastards, I believe I said. That painting on the horse, for instance. It was barely mentioned! Can you believe that? They spent so much time in the paper discussing how I acquired it, and so little on the art. Luckily for me, someone leaked some photos onto the internet. Oh, is that where you saw them? I thought so. Yes, the regular media don't give a damn for art these days. Only the tabloids seemed intent on giving me any mention. The acquisition was, in fact, rather difficult. I walked for miles through forgotten country roads, looking at different animals. The cows and goats and sheep were too numerous, I think, and so they sullied their potential in my mind. Instead, my imagination began to light every time I spied a horse. After a while, I started taking photographs of them, writing down where I saw them, what farm they were on, things like that. It took weeks. And trust me, as the image grew in my mind, so did the importance of finding just the right animal. And then one day, as I drank from a canteen, I came upon a pale horse grazing in a paddock. Even from 25 meters away, I could tell what a beautiful animal it was. Something in me just clicked. I knew I had to have that horse. Knew it to be the perfect animal for the painting. My enthusiasm got the better of me and I jumped the waist high fence to gaze more closely at the animal. Once I saw its eyes, I was absolutely certain. Oh, they were so beautiful. Filled with the innocence of nature. I felt as though I stared into God Himself. It's rare to find such a canvas. So rare. I did try and purchase the animal, of course. After praising God for showing me the perfect vehicle for my art, I jumped back outside the paddock fence and followed it to a long gravel driveway. Walking between the green fields, I composed my words with excitement. A small voice inside me kept insisting such a perfect animal would not be for sale, but I resolved to try anyway. The large cottage door opened at my knock and a tall man answered. His face was ruddy from too much sun and wind, perfect white teeth contrasting against his complexion. He smiled full and friendly. "What can I do for ya?" he asked. "Good afternoon, sir," I said. "I saw this magnificent animal on my walk today. A pale horse if ever there was one." The man's smile broadened. "That's lightnin'," the man said. "She's a beaut, ain't she?" "Indeed," I answered. "Might I inquire if she's for sale?" The man paused for a moment and then gave a short laugh. "I'm sorry, sir. No she's not. She's my little girl's. And she ain't gonna take too kindly to the idea of sellin' her." I felt as though God had punched me in the stomach, all the energy in my body seemed to dissipate, replaced instead by the darkness of failure and the exhaustion of the day's walk. The man seemed to notice my disquiet and sighed. "I have another few horses I might be willing to part with, depending on the price." I shook my head. "I was particularly enamored with this animal. Almost perfect beast." The man nodded, his smile returning. "Yeah, I'm real proud of how she turned out. So you have a farm or a ranch?" "Neither," I said softly. He frowned. "Then where would you keep her?" I shrugged. "Guess that's not important now. Thank you for your time, sir," I said and turned back to the drive. "Excuse me, can I get your name and number in case my daughter changes her mind?" I stopped in the drive and turned back to face him. "I'll come back and check some other time. Although if your daughter loves the animal as much as you say, I seriously doubt that's going to happen." I tipped an imaginary hat to him. "Thanks again for your time." "Sure," the man called back to me. I didn't hear the door close until I was well down the path. I imagined the man staring at my back, a puzzled expression on his face. I idly wondered if he would keep me in mind, or maybe talk with the other farmers nearby. But I knew it wouldn't matter. I had found what I needed. And for me, need always trumped fate. But that didn't mean I was foolish, no. I hiked back to my vehicle and headed for my flat. I had some preparation to do. Ah, see how the crimson lines weave? I know, I know, it's too bright. But wait until it's dry. Now, a little black to the outline. Yes, yes. That's exactly what I wanted. Ah, I love it when the images speak to me. Are you feeling better? Here let me look at you. Yes, you seem less concerned. Good. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I spent a little time planning and actually watched the house for a couple of days. Honestly, I felt like some private detective in those television dramas. Frost, perhaps. I watched the farmer leave with his family. I waited and watched for them to return. I spent three days doing that. Getting the rhythm of their habits and the people in their lives. No one ever came to call. The postman always delivered to their box at the end of the cobbled driveway, never going up the walk to knock on the door. From what I surmised, these farmers never had any company at all. And all the time I waited and watched, that beautiful animal's figure was in my mind. A poem. I had to release the poem. On the fourth day, I waited in my car until nightfall. I then removed my pack from the boot and walked half a mile to their home. It was risky, I know, but I could not very well drive my vehicle up their path without expecting to be noticed. That was simply not an option. I made my way carefully under the baleful moonlight. The half-moon flickered as the spring clouds moved across the sky, the verdant green of the land turned to shadow beneath its gaze. Rather than simply walking up to the front door, I hopped over the picket fence and strode through the field. I made my way around toward the barn. I'd made this journey before, you see. Well, I didn't spend the entire time in my car while they were away-- I did my research. At the back of the house, there was another door, one which had always been unlocked on my previous visits. Sheathed in the silence of the wan moonlit night, I entered the door. It was a bit tricky. I'd never before taken human lives. And until it was over, I wasn't certain I could do it. But the entire time, the beautiful image of that horse, that exquisite canvas, was at the forefront of my mind. The amount of blood was shocking, and I thanked God they were but a family of three. I honestly don't know if I could have killed another. The teenage girl was the worst, of course. I entered her bedroom knowing she was already an orphan. And I took some solace in the fact she'd never know it. Once I finished with the family, I made my way to the barn. The canvas stood in its stall. Waiting for me. I ushered the creature into the main area of the barn, atop all the straw. The animal fell easily enough after I'd administered the poison, but it was quite a chore posing it once it was down. Honestly, the things I do for my art. I...well you saw the pictures on the internet. They really didn't do my work justice. Trust me, if you could have seen how beautiful it was! I took the perfection of Michelangelo's "Fall and Expulsion of Adam and Eve" and transferred it into the canvas. It took the entire night. By morning, I was completely exhausted, but it turned out well. Not as well as it should have. The practice I'd done on some felt was not even a close approximation to horse hair, but it was well enough. Ah. A little blue around the corner here. You know how I get that color? I make it myself. I was always good in chemistry. And the process of making it from the raw cobalt and aluminum chloride is soothing. See that bench over there? Yes, that's where I mix my colors. Well, um, some of them. As you can tell, other colors are best not to be invented, but rather recycled. Hmm. This subject tanned well, don't you find? I'm very happy with the colors here. The image of Garaaga seems to be coming out just fine. I like the way the image just seems to explode from the chest, the excised flesh flapped out as though the arms were spread. And the steel of Gabriel's sword striking through its fiendish face...bliss. You know, I studied crucifixion intently. Spent hours on the internet looking through the pictures, pouring over Roman history. This crucifixion canvas provides the perfect balance between the Lord's justice and the plight of man. When God tells me to paint, I sometimes don't know what He's trying to say. But this time? I know. The canvas is meant to show us that man's pain allows the greater evils to be swept away. We all must sacrifice, just as God sacrificed his only son. Especially if it's to rid the world of demons. This canvas is special. God provided it to me in the most curious way. After I finish a piece of art, God sometimes allows me to rest up to a year. This time, God had given me a few months off. I worked on some less important pieces of art and did some logo work for a firm in town, just to keep the bills paid. When God gives me time off from creating art in His name, I still must practice. He wouldn't want me to get rusty, now would He? I used to get impatient with so much time off, but I've realized that He always shows me the way when He wishes me to continue my praise. Three weeks ago, I made my way home in the rain. I have never felt right about driving a left-hand car, and the rain surely makes it hell to remember which side of the road to stay on. But I manage. It's just very tiring. I believe it was God's will that brought me to the canvas. You see, I hit a large puddle in the road and I hydroplaned to one side beneath an overpass. Heart hammering in my chest, I looked up from the steering wheel. The yellow headlights pointed directly at a young woman, huddled in the darkness. She ran up the side of the incline toward the low ceiling of the freeway in terror. For a moment, I didn't dare breathe. I'd seen her face, you see. Her face was...angelic. I felt as though God had struck me with a fist. I could almost hear Him telling me "make this in worship of Me." I didn't bother looking for others beneath the overpass. God had provided me with a new canvas, and nothing would stop her from being mine. I left my car, the rushing roar of water falling through the spouts off the freeway was truly deafening. I could barely see the woman huddled at the top of the incline, but she was still there. I walked slowly toward her, calling out. Even in the shadows, I could tell she was shaking, although from fear of me, fear of the world, or at the prospect of serving God, I could not tell. Eventually I reached her. She raised her head toward me, shivering beneath the grimy blankets. Since I've moved here to America, I've seen this sight all too often. The discarded. Living beneath freeways. It never occurred to me that one day, one of those lost to our society might serve a higher purpose. "It's all right," I said. The roar of the water and passing cars forced me to shout when I'd have rather whispered. "What is your name?" I asked. She murmured something lost in the din. I nodded as though I'd understood her. The ambient light from my headlights wasn't nearly powerful enough to remove the shadows enough for me to clearly see her face. If I had been able to see her mouth, I might have figured out what she was saying. "I am here to help you," I said. She pushed a bit further away from me. "I'll take you some place warm. And I have food," I said. I continued coaxing her for several moments before she agreed, tacitly, to join me. Once in my home, I gave her food and drink. The use of my shower. And allowed her to even watch some television. Eventually though, she succumbed to what I'd slipped in the bourbon--I don't like conflict if I can avoid it, you know. Doing the Lord's work does not excuse unnecessary violence. It takes time to prepare a canvas. A canvas must be washed. Cleaned. And tanning these blessed works takes time and effort. I have a set of heat lamps I use for tanning, of course. But nothing must be wasted, save the clothes the canvas wears. And even those are recycled. Those I do not use in paintings for texture are donated back to the homeless shelters. I like to think someone else is wearing this canvas' clothes. It makes me feel as though I'm giving back. There. I have some finer work to do on the edges, and a little more detail to Garaaga's wound. But it's more or less what I saw in my dreams. Archangel felling demon. The crucifixion is definitely my favorite scene from the Lord's book, but I also like the way the split flesh juts out like wings. It took me weeks to tan them in that position. Well, that and the solid metal pins on ht other side to provide some frame for them. Seemed better to use steel than wood. And this work of art will last a while. A long while. And it must be sturdy, my art. I have to package it up, carefully crate it, and send it to a remailing service. God told me long ago that I must never be discovered as the artist, so I use the remailers to ensure my anonymity-- there can be no fame in doing God's work. The remailers deliver it to the church of my choice, so that it can be installed in the house of God where it belongs. Unfortunately, the churches never keep them for very long. The authorities, another group of rotten bastards, much like the press, think my art is some kind of criminal work. They always seem to show up to the church and cart my art away! My art! God's art! Don't they understand? He moves me to paint on His canvas! I-- I'm sorry, I'm ranting. Here, let me clean my brushes, and I'll take you off to bed. I can see by your eyes the morphine has taken affect. No, you have nothing to worry about, young man. God has seen fit to deliver you to me. And I promise the work of art I create with you will be no less important than the one you see here. When I'm done with my brushes, we'll pray to Him. And you can thank Him for delivering you to me.