Wednesday, September 27, 2017

He Called it Art

He Called It Art
By Michael Cannata  

The artist stepped back slowly, admiring his work. The canvas was of the finest quality. It captured the warm, flowing colors of his subject and gave them a rich, deep hue. The way it enhanced the flesh tones against the ever darkening background was striking. It lent the impression of an early summer reddening to the almost milky white complexion.

The late evening light he'd worked by was casting long shadows across his workspace. He'd needed to work fast before he lost the best of its illumination. He usually took his time when working. He loved to linger, stepping back frequently, so he could admire the work from the perspective of the viewer. After all, it was his calling, but it was done for their entertainment. He loved to add the sort of creative touches that would take peoples breathe away when they first set eyes on the finished masterpiece.

At the thought of his extraordinary talent he was immediately self-conscious. He didn’t like to use such terms when he rated his work. He knew he was good. Secretly, he hoped he would be remembered as one of the greatest of his genre. Ultimately, he knew that was for others to decide. He created for the love of it, not the glory or celebrity.

The subject's pose was one that was both evocative and provocative. It would bring to mind the innocence of a virginal girl while exposing the raw sexuality of a wanton woman. She lay totally naked, yet with none of her privates exposed. A closer look would reveal, not simply what lay on the outside, but would permit the observer to see what lay deep inside her. He had made a veritable window to her heart; or where her heart used to be. Now she held her heart in her hand.

He took the last drink from the wineglass and prepared to leave. As he gave his work one last review he noticed one final touch-up he needed to add. Her internal organs circled the body in a perfectly symmetrical pattern. It was almost complete; just one small detail was askew.

He reached down and adjusted the piece of mirror on her eye. It had to be just right when they found her. When the viewer looked directly into her eyes, he wanted them to see the horror that lie in their own.

They would call it homicide. Proudly, he called it art.

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