Posted by Alanna Horgan January 11th, 2010 |
 

A nightmare in the making, Sarah returned to him every night. In her lifetime, men had paid good money for her visitations, but Erik received her unwanted attention for free. He had made a terrible error with her, of that there could be no mistake. It simply wasn’t his way to do such things, to act in such a manner. There was no art in it. Just nails tearing at flesh, horrible screams and wild eyes. A black curse upon the day that he had led her back to his home!

Sometimes it seemed as though she couldn’t have been real. But then he would awaken to the canvas, and her reality would live on in the work that he couldn’t abandon. The voice wouldn’t allow him to. He had brought it all on himself, of course, invoking forces beyond his ken in order to become a great artist. At some point he had made a critical error, and summoned not some tame muse to make use of as he saw fit, but a ravenous demon that was slowly driving him mad.

Finally, the nightmare of tortured cries and awful laughter released him, and the artist dragged himself from his narrow, sweat-soaked bed. Making his way to the canvas, he found a few long, dark-rooted, bleached blonde hairs clinging to his chest, tangible reminders of Sarah’s physical presence. Yet another unsolicited intrusion into his world. Only the canvas could save him now.

 

Madness is its own reward. Or is that art? We can never remember, can we?

 

The paint swirled beneath his deliberate brushstrokes, each one applied with equal love, care and desperation to the canvas before him. Dr Erik Stark had become renowned in recent years for his unique works of modern, impressionistic art. It was the viciousness of them that set them apart, the pieces looking as if they had been raked with the claws of some ferocious beast. Somehow though, they were the only thing that could bring him some temporary semblance of solace.

Some of his earlier works bore a resemblance to Japanese kanji characters, which Erik found exceedingly beautiful. Fittingly enough, his most successful kanji-inspired work came from the character for devil, Oni. More recently though, he had come to realise that the kanji were too beautiful for his message, and his style became more primal. The colours he used were grotesque; foul crimson and dirty ochre and deep, horrid black. But it was still love more than anything that drove him to attempt to capture that single, perfect moment that he could never quite reach. The artist’s hand came to a sudden stop. Sarah’s screeching had invaded his mind for a split-second, and now he had lost his way. Frustrated, Erik tried to find where to lay the next stroke. He stared at the work, unblinking. Slowly, sickeningly, his eyes became unfocused and rolled back in his head.

 

What would Hieronymus Bosch be feeling?

 

Erik did not wish to emulate Bosch’s style. That would be too simple, even demeaning. Bosch’s subject matter was too explicit. It made his audiences lazy. No, it was the feeling that Erik wished to capture, the raw emotion that sent Arctic chills down the spines of all who dared look upon his visions of Hell.

 

Perhaps it isn’t Bosch we’re in need of tonight.

 

This demon may not have been the muse that Erik was looking for, but it was intelligent and had at least some appreciation of art and poetry. Or perhaps Erik had instilled those tastes in the creature? Their relationship was undoubtedly symbiotic. It didn’t really matter, of course. Only the work truly mattered. The artist put Bosch and all other distractions out of his mind, searching for inspiration. Unconsciously, he moved to his desk that sat before the only window in his warehouse apartment, lit now in these dark hours by two large, evanescent candelabra. Immediately before him was Aleister Crowley’s Moonchild, but that was hardly what he was looking for. Tonight was not the time for the Hierophant. Erik set the book aside, finding a newspaper underneath. It was today’s Age, left open at Rachel Sorenson’s review of his work in the A2 section.

‘…Stark’s latest works are nothing less than masterpieces. The brutal savagery of his newest creations far outstrip his previous works in their daring, opulence and in some cases, even diabolical flamboyance. Dr Stark, who possesses a double degree in Art History and Occult Studies, will appear tomorrow night at the National Gallery for the official opening of the collection to the public…’

 

So soon? Curses. We need to finish this piece.

Sarah.

 

Erik crumpled the newspaper and threw it aside. It landed already forgotten on a pile of dusty, stained clothes that did not belong to him, but he had never bothered to throw away. He was dimly aware that the corner smelled of human, but the odour hadn’t drifted far beyond there yet.

Many more volumes awaited his perusal beneath the newspaper, but only one caught his eye and tugged his consciousness, almost calling to him with a voice of its own.

 

The voice of Dante. Don’t you know that he will never be silenced?

Yes, yes I know.

We know everything. And like Dante, it is our duty to reveal all. For glory undreamt.

* * *

The piece was unsatisfactory as always. Dubbed Sarah, it sat enthroned upon a mahogany easel, veiled like an unwilling bride until the moment of revelation arrived.

 

It is as if the Bible were imparted to the masses one verse at a time, or if month by month we were allowed but a single page of Macbeth to eventually form a cohesive whole. But no matter how laborious, our work will inevitably be complete. It is only a matter of time.

 

Erik’s reverie was broken by the sound of his agent tapping a glass with a teaspoon, piercing the polite din of assembled art lovers. The agent was to give a speech, apparently. Erik always refused to. Orators were a feeble species who would eventually be ousted by artists, and craftsmen of the written word. The agent existed only to convey Erik’s message to those of inferior minds.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. We have a very special surprise in store for you tonight. Not only do we enjoy the presence of Dr Erik Stark himself…’

At the sound of enthusiastic applause, Erik’s mind drifted away from his agent’s speech. The man would drone on for some minutes, delaying the pleasure of the audience at viewing Sarah. Erik had little interest in their reactions at this time. Only when the message had been completed would they understand. What would be the point of the Mona Lisa, after all, if Da Vinci had given it up to the masses after the initial sketch?

Erik’s gaze meandered through the crowd, boredom dulling his senses, until he alighted on a woman. Slender, pale and beautiful, her dress of emerald silk sublimely contrasting the molten cascade of her hair. White wine in hand, her eyes widened with rapture as Sarah was unveiled. While the others began commenting, self-consciously effusive, this one remained silent, contemplative. If anyone in the room understood the message, it was her.

 

So soon?

Yes, why not. Inspiration is a whimsical mistress.

Tame this princess, then.

 

‘Dr Stark! You startled me.’

‘I apologise. Do you like Sarah?’

‘She seems… deeper than the others. There’s more pain in her.’

‘Yes. I thought pain might help. What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure. It seems almost… laborious, maybe? It certainly stands out from your earlier work, even the rest of the collection here tonight.’

‘Sarah wasn’t intended to be part of this collection. She was an experiment.’

‘I see. Was she a success?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll try that again. But I think I know what I’ll do next.’

‘Can you tell me?’

‘I can show you. Would you like me to?’

‘Of course, Dr Stark! I’d be honoured.’

‘Please, call me Erik. And you are?’

‘Rachel Sorenson.’

Rachel was quite right. Sarah had been an experiment in pain. At the time, Erik had thought that perhaps the reason his works weren’t fully evoking the feelings he intended was that he had been too distant. So with Sarah, he had gotten more involved, spent weeks preparing when usually his inspiration was borne on fiery wings and a crack of thunder. Quick and over in an instant, but with long reverberations. Sarah had been built up, but if anything, the result was vulgar. It was not what he wanted. Rachel would be different. Rachel wouldn’t leave him unfulfilled and at the mercy of mentally marauding nightmares. Of that he was certain.

* * *

‘There is much to be admired in Japanese culture. Please,’ Erik indicated the satin cushion set before the low table. The elegant setting was somewhat incongruous with its surroundings. While obviously expensive due to its size and prime position on the edge of the city, the warehouse apartment was quite dilapidated, gradually descending further and further into disrepair. Downstairs, where they had entered, a musty stench predominated, but thankfully it hadn’t penetrated here. Upstairs, it seemed bare and functional. Erik, however, was a polite and pleasant host, and this Oriental setting seemed promising enough. Rachel smiled and knelt, opposite a blank canvas. Her small frame seemed to shrink even more as it was juxtaposed against the long table. Erik noticed that her eyes were as deep a green as her dress. Her perfume filled the air with the heady scent of youth come to power and influence, at least insofar as the media allowed. The artist knelt at the head of the table.

‘Don’t you want to move the canvas?’ Rachel asked.

‘Before I begin a new piece, I keep the canvas with me at all times, no matter what I’m doing. Eventually, I see something upon it, and I’ll attack it immediately.’

‘So you haven’t begun yet?’

‘Oh, I have. If you’ll wait here a moment…?’

‘Sure,’ Rachel smiled.

 

You’re investing much in this girl.

I know.

What if you’re mistaken?

I’m not.

You have been before. I’ll be watching you. Do not abandon the work under any circumstances. You may well be wrong.

 

Erik returned a moment later and draped a kimono over Rachel’s shoulders.

‘Isn’t that more comfortable?’

Rachel smiled. The kimono was warm and luxurious, made of silk much finer than her dress. It was a deep crimson, the colour of fresh blood, and embroidered with golden trim of most exquisite detail. A dragon curled itself about her body, silk sliding over her like serpentine slithering. She wondered if the artist was hitting on her. Her enjoyment came to an end as she heard a click behind her, a sound that until now she only knew from films. It was nevertheless unmistakable as the sound of a gun. She looked up and saw the pristine canvas before her, her eyes widening as understanding dawned with crystal clarity.

‘You see it now, don’t you Rachel?’

‘Yes.’

‘The others were taken by surprise. They never knew. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sarah was different. She knew. I tortured her before I killed her. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not going to torture you. All I require of you is understanding.’

‘I do. I do understand. Please, I understand, I’ll do anything, I’ll make others understand, I’ll spread your message, just please let me go. Let me live. I’ll do anything.’

‘Yes. Yes, you will make others understand. You’ll spread my message.’

Rachel’s tense shoulders dropped with relief as Erik’s voice softened.

‘I’ll let you live forever.’

And then, she understood.

Erik watched as the blood trickled its familiar course towards the drain in the centre of the room. He smiled, and lifted his gaze to the blood-spattered canvas. Rachel was more symmetrical than the others. She would be quite different. Inspired, he lifted his brush to the blood.

* * *

Rachel was unsatisfactory in the end, of course. She was too clean, too pure, too perfect. Understanding and clarity were not part of the message. He realised that now. Even Sarah had forsaken him, his mind too clean and angular for her taste. Now, his nightmares consisted of bare white walls, empty rooms, and perfectly symmetrical shapes crushing in on him from all sides. He knew what he needed though; he needed something wretched. Not vulgar like Sarah, no, nothing like that. Just something that reflected descent, descent into the underworld, into Hell.

 

Try downstairs.

 

Erik was at his wit’s end, so at a loss for inspiration that he didn’t even bother questioning the voice. He simply made his way down the rusting spiral staircase to the ground floor. He never used this floor for anything. There was no inspiration to be found in these lifeless walls or the cobwebbed ceiling.

 

Look again.

 

With mounting frustration, Erik turned about, directing his gaze all around him, but still finding nothing. In a fit of rage, he threw his paintbrush across the open space, his eyes involuntarily following its arc until it landed in the middle of an enormous black blood-stain, almost unnoticeable in the darkness. Slowly, his eyes moved up to the ceiling. The drain above had barely proved worthy of his notice before, but now, it seemed it would become his most valuable tool. Finally, a smile graced Erik’s lips, as he raced upstairs with renewed vigour for his largest canvas yet.