chiaroscuro

chiaroscuro. she could not move her hands and so could not paint.

that is when the visions started. stars would bang around inside of her head, bursting, the light coming from each one travelled toward the earth leaving its mark upon where it fell. her body was light and it would rise up, up, up into a cloud covered sky and looking down, she saw where the lit drawings lay.

she painted inside her brain like the blue ceilinged chapels you find on greek islands. more stars and more light. Raw siena danced with it's cousin, burnt siena, when umber would cut in, warm palets hurdling their way onto her mind's canvas.

phthalo blue mixed with dioxazine violet while cadmium yellow middle waited on the sidelines with cadmium red and viridian green. lamp black carved out a corner of payne's grey matter. but they were no match for crimson or indian yellow or cobalt blue.

her landscapes were textured and when the light of her thoughts hit the forms she marveled at the way the lines vibrated and pulsed with her heartbeat. why should she lift a brush when she could paint like this?

they came by to offer condolescences and she would nod to let them know she heard and understood. the chair she lived in and the dog at her feet werel too much for most and they would not, could not stay very long.

when she was alone with her paint she agonised the limitations of early work. she did stand at easel seven or ten or twelve hours a day. how could she have missed the glory that now danced in her head? these were the best paintings she had ever, would ever paint!

she died on a sunday morning, her dog at her side. when the postman came next day to find the door was not ajar he called the building super and when they opened the door the dog came to greet them, leading them back to her.

she was sitting upright. there was a vase of rinunculas of the palest pink on the table to her left. the window was open and a breeze came through and pushed some papers around on the desk.

there was the trace of a smile, her hands turned upward in prayer on her lap. she was wearing her painter's smock, and there was cadmium red on one of the pockets, too.

the package the postman brought on monday was left outside the front door where he had dropped it and one of the paramedics stepped on it as he wheeled her out to the waiting attendant. the address read: margaret (daisy!) winthrop, 109 third street, new york, ny 10012.

later when some friends got together to celebrate her painter's life, they pushed themselves into a small apartment over in east village and drank until the sun came up and then they went home to their canvas and keyboard and clarinet and dancing shoes. the dancer thought about her feet and the writer thought about his eyes and the clarinet player thought about her lip and the painters? they thought about daisy's hands.