“There is a hidden side to every picture—the conception which was in the artist’s mind and heart. That conception, when he formed it, expressed itself clearly in the astral and mental matter, even though he may have succeeded but partially in bringing his idea down to the physical world.” — C. W. Leadbeater, The Hidden Side of Things, Vol. II, 1913 

1: Separation 

I don’t know much about the man who created me. I feel only threads of him, currents of his energy seeping through the paint in my veins. In my mind, he is a bearded man, soft-spoken, with a melancholy Prussian Blue tint to his thoughts. I do know this: he was an amateur artist, unrecognized but for one series of paintings. I feel the deep, deep sadness that poured from his fingertips when he brought me to life on this canvas.

Tonight, I stand motionless in my painting, waiting for the telltale snap of the heavy light switch, when my home gallery at the Museum of Magic, Occultism and Supernatural Curiosities will finally be plunged into darkness. I’m surrounded by the impatience of my neighbors. It’s always like this when one of us has a birthday. There’s an electric buzz in the air, sparks of excitement flittering about like a swarm of dragonflies. During the day, we sleep—but I suspect I’m not the only one who woke up early tonight. It’s the 5th of May (so said the janitors, whom we overheard talking earlier this evening), which means it is The Incubus’s birthday. 

At last, here comes the light switch, made even louder by our collective excitement—SNAP! And the dusty, wood-paneled gallery becomes a pitch-black tomb. 

But not for long.

Colorful lights bubble from the paintings as their inhabitants awaken one by one—luminous orbs of green, golden-yellow, cerulean, violet, vermilion. The gallery becomes a galaxy filled with glowing, nebulous shapes, each painting’s soul stirring to consciousness.

The last echo of the janitor’s footsteps fades away. He wouldn’t have seen us, even if he’d stayed in our gallery. He doesn’t have the sight. 

“Hurray! I thought he’d never leave,” says The Sylph in the Garden, whose vivid canvas hangs on the wall directly opposite from mine.

Sylphie beams and hops down from her garden swing entwined with passion flowers. She is all radiance, summer perfume wafting from her golden hair. 

“Shall we sing now?” she says. Her voice is like honey, warm and sweet and liquid gold. “Is everyone awake? Shall we sing?”

“Yes! Hmpf? Yes, yes, I’m awake,” comes the ponderous voice of The Alchemystical Philosopher at His Alembic, a heavy, overworked sort of oil painting from the 1850’s. The sharp, medicinal smell of Alchie’s canvas reaches me all the way from the east corner of the gallery, all thanks to the strange powdered compounds the artist has mixed into the paints.

“Let the festivities begin!” Sol and Luna cry in unison from their painting—The Lovers, which shows the Sun King and the Moon Queen in a passionate embrace. 

“On the count of three, then?” says Korrigan, the little man wearing a leather cap with two horns. “One! Two—”

But Sylphie starts singing before the count of _three_, and we all rush along with her:

We wish you a happy birthday!

We wish you a happy birthday!

We wish you a happy birthday!

And many happy more years!

 We don’t know what mortals sing on their birthdays, but we heard a group of them caroling outside the Museum one winter, and this tune has stuck with us. 

“Hurray for The Incubus!” Sylphie claps her delicate, shimmering hands. “How does it feel to be fifty-one?”

There is a hush as every soul in the gallery turns towards The Incubus. 

Glowing from all the attention, the demon lifts his fiery eyes to peer at us from his canvas, his irises like rosy coals. 

“I am…much pleased,” he says in his silky voice.

A painting’s life begins the moment it is conceived in the artist’s imagination; it ends when the painting is finished. We only celebrate the day of the completed painting. I still have trouble believing that Anonymous painted The Incubus from start to finish in one night. 

“I have…a surprise to share with you all,” The Incubus drawls. 

Does he have to speak like that, inserting a dramatic pause into every sentence? 

“Oooh, go on then!” says Sylphie.

There is a pulse in the air. My blue heart nearly stops as the luminous red nebula of energy that shines around The Incubus wiggles and struggles and finally breaks free from its canvas. It floats away from the wall like a scarlet butterfly leaving its cocoon. 

A dozen different voices gasp from their canvases. The tall, muscular figure of The Incubus himself is floating inside the scarlet bubble of light—a demon with flowing white hair and a devil’s smile. 

“I don’t believe it!” cries Xochipilli, Prince of Flowers, whose body is a red and turquoise mosaic. “He’s Separated!”

Indeed. The Incubus gloats, floating around the gallery, completely free from his painting. 

“HOW did you do THAT?” Sylphie cries out, her golden eyes gleaming.

“I’ve been…working on this for years, my dear.” The Incubus floats right in front of Sylphie’s painting. I don’t like the way he looks at her…or the way his long-nailed hand reaches out to caress her painted golden curls. “Every night, I practiced pulling my soul away from the canvas little by little…until I achieved full Separation.” 

“How maaaaarvelous,” says Sylphie.

“You maniac! Amazing!” Xochipilli cheers.

“Yes, hmpf, yes, quite,” Alchie says through his nose.

“Congratulations!” chime The Lovers. Still coiled in their embrace, they strain their necks for a better look at The Incubus.

“Where will you go now that you’re free, mate?” Korrigan asks in his raspy voice.

“Oh…well….” The Incubus turns slowly in the air on his velvety black wings. He is posing for us, so we can admire his muscular figure—posing for Sylphie, most of all. 

Arrogant demon.

“I believe there are…dozens of sleeping beauties in the village beyond this museum…. I’ve sensed their presence in this gallery, felt their eyes studying my naked form. Now I am off to spend my fiftieth birthday…the way I’ve always wanted to spend it. By haunting their dreams.” He smirks. “Good night...good friends.”

He turns, leers at me, licking his lips—and then flies off, vanishing through the gallery wall.

The dreamy look Sylphie casts after him makes me ache somewhere deep inside.

2: Conjuction 

I don’t even have a proper name. 

Apparition in Blue, No. 5. Not even the first Apparition that came to the mind of my creator. No, the fifth one. 

Who wants to be number five in a series of artworks? You are better off being No. 1, the first, fresh impulse. Or, the last of the series, a final conclusion. I don’t know where my sibling Apparitions are, or if any of them survived the fire in which my creator burned most of his life’s work. All I know is, my companions here in the gallery are unique paintings, not part of a series. 

On Midsummer night, we have a wedding. 

Sol and Luna are officiating.

“It is said that two paintings hung directly across from each other are destined to fall in love,” says Sol. 

“You, who have spent eleven years gazing at each other—you’ve proven that this legend is true,” says Luna. 

“May you live in happiness until your colors fade to white!” they chorus together. “Now, blend your energies. Unite!”

I hold my breath. A soft pink bubble of light stretches from the painting of Mother, Maiden, Crone. A bright indigo bubble reaches out from The Garden of Paradise, meeting the pink one. The two souls don’t Separate from their respective paintings, but they reach far enough to touch each other, to embrace. As they blend together, a new color appears between them, a deep, rosy lavender. 

I wish I could cheer with the other paintings, but all I can do is watch, and let my heart flutter with yearning and hope. All I can see is Sylphie, her portrait facing mine. 

The Incubus catches me looking at her. 

After the wedding, the demon detaches himself from his canvas to fly off for another night of haunting, but not before floating up to me. 

“Wondering what your color baby might look like?” he whispers so that only I can hear him. Smirking, he glances from Sylphie to me. “Will you never tell her?” 

Then he looks down at the spot where my mouth should be, and laughs. 

3: Putrefaction

A dream. 

Through the blanket of shadowy sleep, sounds reach me from the gallery. It’s still daytime, too early for me to wake up—but footsteps clop on the polished floor, and voices float to me from a distance. 

“…many famous contributors,” says a male voice, full of pride.

“Isabelle de Steiger, Annie Bessant—we have some of their paintings….” 

“…and this one?” comes a female voice, curious. “Ooooh, I love her….”

“She is a beauty, isn’t she?”

I don’t hear the rest—the voices move away—but hot panic floods me, head to toe. I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly trapped in a gray-blue cloud of fear. 

Then, the footsteps grow louder, the voices vibrate against my canvas.

“…poor fellow! What happened to his mouth?”

“Oh yes. The artist meant it as a commentary. An Apparition of Melancholy…full of emotion, unable to voice the passions within. If you like the other one, I’d be happy to….”

But the rest of the words are snatched away, muffled by a thick, black void. 

Silence. Shadows. 

Sleep engulfs me again.

When I wake up that night, Sylphie’s painting is gone. 

“Someone bought her,” says Mother, Maiden, Crone. 

4: Distillation 

Instead of Sylphie’s golden eyes, an empty spot stares at me from the gallery wall. A bare stretch of wood. 

No more laughter, no summer perfume, no more passion flowers. Her smile will light up someone’s home now, maybe a living room where she will shine in front of admiring guests, or a library where she’ll bring a touch of laughter and lightness to the dull atmosphere. But my world will be dark now.

Should I have told her, somehow? Should I have communicated better with my eyes, my soul, my wisp of a blue body? If I’d tried hard enough, could my inner voice have torn an opening in the smooth, blue flesh of my face, so that I could speak to her?

But it was always bound to happen—someone was always going to take Sylphie away from here. She is too beautiful to stay forever in a gallery.

So, this is what it feels like to break apart. It’s an icy split, a ripple going down from the tips of my smoky, sapphire hair to the ends of my crystal blue fingers and toes. 

When members of the magical community paint, they weave a matrix of astral matter so strongly charged with their thoughts and emotions that their creations take on a life of their own. These people give their paintings a soul, and my creator didn’t think my soul deserved to speak. By not giving me a mouth, he broke me from the beginning.

The gallery is so quiet, I am sure the other paintings can feel my grief. And I can feel theirs too. The loss of Sylphie hangs heavy on all of us.

“I’ll give her your best regards,” says The Incubus, grinning at me.

He’s Separated himself from his canvas again and he flies through the gallery wall, his laughter crackling like logs in a fire. 

He doesn’t know that his act of malice makes this Prussian Blue heart of mine spark with hope again. If the demon can Separate, so can I. It may take years, and a miracle of willpower, but it’s the only way to see Sylphie again. 

I have to try.

I still stay up late into the morning hours, trying.