Life Without Passion

Joe closes the book and walks over to his easel. He is trying to create something interesting, which becomes challenging even though his teacher claims it can be done. Grey is grey, no matter if it's darker or lighter. Shading is what makes the artist these days, not much else. 

Joe puts down the brush and walks over to the bathroom door. 

"Clara, I am ready for you now," Joe said while swirling the brush in a sea of grey water. While cleaning, he wondered if this was needed, but it probably is best to start with each shade of grey in a good pure mixture. 

Clara came into the room wearing a robe. She sat on a stool before Joe and dropped the robe to reveal herself to him as he began to paint. Clara was perfect in many ways. Her face was round and symmetrical, and her hair was long, shiny, and lustrous, hanging down to the middle of her back, black like everyone else's. She was not African-American, so she was light brown. Her smile was closed, not open, preventing Joe from providing white to offset the gray tones of her face. He had three colors: black, grey, and white. That's all he knew, and that's all anybody could see. 

But Joe had a reputation for pulling the most out of these options. Detail, shading, and the perfect model all made him one of the best around, and he was often listed as the person who could make life a little more inhabitable. It was a three-hour session, and at the end, Clara returned to the bedroom and lay down as Joe started to work on removing some of the brush marks and correcting a few background mistakes. This process was the final part of this project; it was essentially done and ready to be sold. 

The next day, Clara and Joe walked down the street and mingled among the people as they strolled among the storefronts. The sun was out, warming but not releasing the feelings of indifference. This was their life. They existed with no color, not knowing what that word meant, but still finding a need to be human, embracing the sun as it peaked out from the grey clouds through the dark black mountains on the horizon.

There were various stores in the outdoor market, and Joe and Clara visited many of them. Joe's painting of Clara was wrapped in an old blanket he carried under his arm. Some of the stores Joe knew about would be open to purchase the painting, so he was ready to bargain

Some shop proprietors would look at the painting of the nude Clara and wander back to her. She was a beautiful woman, and it was hard not to see the lust in the men's eyes. It was also a good way to sell the painting. Joe had done this often with the various models he used but found only a few shops he was willing to do business with. 

A new establishment interested him. Most of these merchants worked out of small brick buildings attached and lined down the street. Handmade signs were painted and secured above each door and separated apart. This new one was just a tent on the end but had paintings in front that differed from anything he had ever seen. Their depictions were emotional and energetic. They were almost happy. 

When they walked in through an opening in the tent, a soft blend of Indian music immediately relaxed them. This, along with sandalwood incense and a hint of jasmine, gave Joe and Clara the feeling that this was the rightful home for the painting. A man came out from behind a section of the tent and welcomed them. He had a long beard and robe and spoke softly and steadily. 

"Can I look at the painting you have?" the man asked in a soft, broken English.

"Sure, I am not just selling this to anybody. You will resell it, but it must be handled and cared for. "

Joe removed the old blanket and held it up for the owner to get a good perspective. Instantly, Joe saw the reaction he was hoping for. His face lit up, his eyes widened, and he walked up to get a closer view.

"I've got to have this," he said. The model is gorgeous and looks like she is looking right at you, wherever you are. The perfection that permeates this is amazing. The setting, the posture of the model, and the gray and black interaction make it seem almost real. But I have only one problem," the man said without glancing away. I don't have enough money to purchase this because I know what it is worth."

"That's too bad because I would have been happy to sell it to you." 

The man then explained that he was a Hindu priest and might have something else to offer.

"Some of my fellow priests attend a gathering designed to help strengthen our faith. Sometimes, we ingest an ancient plant that puts us in touch with a life representing a soul finding a new home. A soul that genuinely loves the earth and the animals and knows that soon he will become one of them in the afterlife. This is before it becomes contaminated with the people and situations we encounter while growing into the man we strive to be. This thing we partake in makes us whole, and you would make a better painter by making you see more than you would ever see in our everyday dreariness. Enlightened is an overused word, but you would find yourself 'enlightened,' "

The priest returned from the back with a sack and handed it to Joe. 

"If you don't enjoy what you find with this, I will return the painting to you," He said. 

"Boil with water and drink, be patient, and give it some time to pull you into its breach; you will soon be awake in a world you only dreamed of."

Back at Joe's apartment, Joe and Clara drank from the solution. The awful-smelling, foul-tasting potent was taking its own sweet time as they sat on the couch, read, and listened to music. After about an hour, it kicked in, and soon, Joe was floating on a cloud, observing himself as he journeyed through many of his life experiences. He watched himself grow and learn, seeing his paintings as they developed and matured.

But soon, something happened that made him feel amazing. Slowly, a fantastic change started taking shape. He watched as his brush took on a hue, scaring him at first but then becoming awestruck. Colors appeared in his dreams. Soon, red, blue, and green exploded into his mind and gave it a whole new feel. His visions became a spectacular and explosive mental experience. It became a surreal but unimaginable boost to his love of life and everything about it. He never wanted it to end. Life was now enjoyable and livable.

Soon, he was watching Clara lying in green grass near a flowing brook. A blue brook. She was in ecstasy by the look on her face. Joe drifted over to her and found himself with paintbrushes and a kaleidoscope of colors to choose from. He was now a real painter and soon found himself in front of Clara as she poised naked with a seductive and gleeful smile. Something he never saw before. He now really saw her. Skin and hair are beautiful. He painted. 

Soon, they became tired and laid down to sleep, the sound of the brook rippling along among the red and black rocks. They slept deep and long. They found themselves in the same bleak and gray world when they woke up. Joe remembered the painting and quickly arose to see it covered up on an easel. He was anxious to see it, thinking he would show the world what he had discovered and made on this easel.

He threw off the cover only to see her unchanged—the same gray. Her face, however, exuded a whole new feeling. She was exhibiting a show of total abandonment. She had found her nirvana and was never going back. Clars stood behind him as Joe looked on in disappointment. The world wasn't ready for this change. It couldn't handle it. That's why he couldn't bring it with him. He could only show how life could be sweeter and how there is more to our existence by getting the emotions and feelings of his subjects to a canvas and letting them interpret. Clara and Joe will always know where to go to extract it.