Baroque

The townspeople don’t know what it means when I say I brought my painting to life. They think I'm eccentric, aloof, adrift; but the truth is I did it so I could stay alive. The price of life is not just a monetary one - oh no. There’s a spiritual cost too. Two weeks ago I was sitting at this exact spot on the river, and I knew I wasn’t alone. Every day since I’ve been consumed with finding it. 

My brush was hardened from a long day of painting, and the afternoon sun wasn’t getting any kinder. An exaggerated breath was my admission of defeat, yet another fruitless attempt to stew over along the path back into town. I packed very little; knowing I would return soon once I cleaned my tools. The walk from the river wasn't long, but it taunted me over being unable to recreate The Living Painting. You see, it’s lost. But not misplaced, more like escaped. When I painted it, it moved; it was alive. I tried to take it, but as quickly as it was here - it left. Vanishing like shadows into the nighttime. 

Sharing what I’ve seen may have been the most regretful choice I’ve made in awhile. The sudden appearance of a painting with transcendent properties followed by its immediate disappearance did not make me a popular man in the marketplace. Had I not been so overcome with exuberance, I might have found the time to practice a little discretion and saved some dignity in the meantime. Regardless, my days have been spent with my nose to the canvas trying to recreate what I know I’ve seen. I even gave up my market stall and stopped selling my work to prove it. I’m hoping to find the right colors. 

As I entered town, I was passed by a familiar horse pulling a cart and a young man I've come to know as a friend. Guillaume leapt off the back of his cart to greet me “I’ve missed you in the market”. 

“I’m afraid something’s been pressing,” I sighed. 

“I haven’t seen The Lady yet, we could share a drink”. 

“A wonderful thought - but your father will be missing you at your stand” 

“It’s busy today, and I just brought in more flour,” Guillaume spun a coin into the air “He won’t even notice I’m gone”. 

“We'll see,” I chuckled. Guillaume was right, today was busy. I was fortunate to be so absorbed in obsession, or else I may have thought about the money I might’ve made. Maybe even paid rent. Maybe. 

‘Pierre! I saw your painting - it was running that way!’ A farmer jeered from his market stall. 

Being angry would be easy, but the truth is, I feel sorry for him. If he saw what I did, his heart would break knowing what he’s missed; what’s really out there. 

Guillaume glanced at me, his furled nose unable to hide the disgust he felt. 

"Boring people have narrow opinions. It’s what keeps them grounded," I reassured him. 

He responded, "I’m glad you’re not boring". 

I held the door open for him. Luckily for us, the inn was in a dreary midafternoon lull. A smattering of patrons occupied the odd corner, but two quiet seats upstairs called our names. 

“Want anything?” The young man inquired.

The offer was tempting, but losing focus terrified me more than a missed drink, “The shade is plenty for me”. 

Guillaume ran his hand through his hair “Well, I can’t drink alone. Have a moment to help me?”. 

“Name it” I replied, It was the least I could do for refusing a kind offer on such a sweltering day. 

He pulled out a notebook, an item I have come to know him seldom to go anywhere without. He’s had many, but this iteration was blue, and by the looks of it, already full of ideas and drawings he was bubbling over to share “Some advice”. 

I nodded at him to follow me to my room; it’s where I kept all my work and would give me a proper chance to set my canvas down. 

The door swinging open revealed a chaotic landscape of colors everywhere that even resembled livable. My bed was a makeshift drying rack, my floor blotted with drops of dried paints, and the desk where I took most of my sleep these days looked closer to a cityscape of jars and brushes resting on parchment roads. “The Lady offered me storage in the barn for an extra 2 francs on rent” Guillaume tripped over some loose jars of paint on the floor, “I politely declined”. 

Settling into my desk, I cleared enough space for his notebook “May I see it, please?”. 

His deliberate turns were followed by careful examination of its contents “That one” he said, eventually handing the notebook over. 

He stood with his hands held in front of him, his head bowed slightly. The confident demeanor of a farmhand of 19 years had evaporated and been replaced with the likes of a child who had just spilt his tea all over the floor. 

‘I believe you about the Living Painting. It would be a ridiculous thing to lie about.’ He blurted out to break the silence. 

“Heartwarming” I jumped from my seat startled. 

"I meant for you. You speak through your brush. I don’t think you’d say that without meaning it" He clarified. 

“Unfortunately, it hasn’t done much speaking these days” I moaned, my focus unbroken from the intricacies of his work. 

“These are excellent, my boy,” I said with warm enthusiasm. 

It was true. He had a talent that reminded me of why I paint. You see, he reminded me of myself - though not in the way you might think. Young Guillaume is everything I am not. He is gifted by nature; a protege whose authenticity guides his hand. My mind and my body do not communicate well, but his works in tandem. He’ll fill up a notebook much like the one in my hands in a few days, and in doing so, draw a story that would take me a year to craft. I have no shame in admitting this boy would be one of the greatest artists in France, and he will of course surpass me; It’s possible he already has. 

“Just a note - your tone starts to waver towards the end. You have a strong presence, stick to it”. 

There was very little I could offer a man of such promise, so I fell back on my own beliefs. I couldn’t decipher whether his joy was genuine or relief; though I suspect he knew it was good - he just needed to hear it. As soon as the cover of his notebook was pressed closed, Guillaume sprung back to life. 

“You look unwell, sir” He teased. 

“I’m old, dear boy. This is just how I look” I muddled in return. 

Now that his conscience had allowed him to roam about the room, he started to examine the dozens of paintings lining every inch of my room. 

“Are these to be sold?” he asked, holding one. 

“No. That’s not their purpose” I waved my hand with nonchalance, searching for my pipe. 

He offered a matchstick to me “The Lady is worried about your credit. She reckons she’ll have to throw you out if you don’t settle it”. 

I struck it firmly "What a sight that would be". 

"If they’re not to be sold, what are they?" Guillaume squinted at my painting from the working with his head cocked sideways. I crouched next to him to interrogate my work. 

I wrapped my arm around his shoulder "Do you feel anything?" I asked, ushering an outstretched hand towards it.

"No". 

“Me neither. That’s the problem”. I walked a little circle around my room and rubbed my temples. 

“This isn’t for others, this is for me. Two weeks ago I brought a painting to life. It filled me with a purpose as if I’d finally found something I didn’t know I was looking for”. 

I leaned in to the window and shook my head in disappointment “There’s more to an orchid than the way it catches the light. Art is more than beauty; it’s expression - and how pieces fit together. Sometimes the best fits produce very ugly pictures, and it’s hard to understand how something beautiful doesn’t fit, and something ugly does. I would love for the world to be a baroque landscape, but it is not this; and I would be lying if I expressed myself for what it’s not”. 

Guillaume prodded “So it’s just being sad?”.

I grinned at the floor. He always had a way to get it out of me. “No. Creation is happy, even when the work is not. You’re more than a mirror - you put yourself in the idea as well. What would you like to do with your expression?”.

He leaned back onto the wall and ran his eyes across the ceiling to think. After a moment, he finally replied “Can I tell you something?”. 

“Of course” I shot back. 

“I love hearing the story of your travels,”.

I nodded with an unshakeable joy “I did many stupid things when I was young, but those were not among them”. 

“Sometimes I sit in the branches of the tree we use for shade out in the fields, and think about toucans”. 

“Toucans?” I inquired, a bit shocked. 

“You only think it’s crazy because you’ve seen one with your own eyes.” The young man placed his hands in his pockets and lowered his look to the floor “It’s beautiful, it’s free. It could be anywhere, and it would fill it with color. It’s my expression”. 

“I will see one for myself though. Once I can leave the farm, that's all I want to do”. 

Finding the right words came to me as naturally as fish climbing trees, but I placed my arm on his shoulder to reassure him of my confidence in him “I know you will”. 

“What is your plan for finding The Living Painting?”. 

"That's another dilemma. I wish I could tell you it was my hand, my plan - but I’d be lying. It was unlike anything I’ve done or seen. It was clarity in its sincerest form”. 

The young man checked his pocket watch and his expression made it clear he must be returning to his father "I hope you find it" he offered with his parting words.

The moment I was alone I realized the true weight of his visit. Laying my head into a pillow brought me nothing but growing concern every moment that I was still. Sleep escaped me much as it has since the painting came alive. Finding rest while I knew the Living Painting was somewhere out there proved an impossible task. 

Less than an hour passed before I was settling into the open window, I put some fresh tobacco in my pipe and lit it. Later, The Lady would come to knock the door down and be unwilling to trade some paintings in place of the rent I owed.

Puffing thick clouds I retreated into thought. I suppose it’s not really her fault. If I had the life she had - would I have stowed away on a ship to the Indies? Given up a good life as a respectable painter to be an artist? I know for certain not. However, that is not my life. Not the one I was supposed to live, anyways. I am exactly where I am because, amidst all the chaos and randomness in the universe, I was brought to this exact moment to make my decisions. 

I wondered if it was even out there at all, settled in somewhere where it fit, a more natural fit than with me. If it was clarity, it would make a better home anywhere but here. 

A blue outline caught the edge of my glance as I looked around my ruined room. Guillaume had forgotten his notebook. I couldn’t resist the urge to parse through its pages; not as a critic, but as its utmost admirer. 

It didn’t take long for a strange theme in his notebook to catch my eye. It dawned on me every one of these drawings was familiar; every one of them something he couldn’t have possibly known. 

I saw my life on its pages. 

I leaned on the pipe for comfort. I knew I would have to apologize later for looking through it; the contents were not really mine after all. 

Farm life won’t keep him for long - his spirit is unbound, much like the toucan he admires. When I got to the last page, it cut me down where I sat. 

It was The Living Painting. Not the same one, mind you, but his perception of it. Its lines swayed with grace; it was not running. It was a conversation, a melody, a moment stuck in time looping through its beauty to share. My heart rushed with elation, the boy astonished me once again. I couldn’t choose between my surprise that he really believed me, or that he cared to listen. For weeks I could hardly recall a detail of a work I spent hours on, and he had recreated it in the throwaway pages of a notebook between scribbles of notes.

A feeling filled my body - like I was about to say something, but the words behind my lips were anyone’s guess - waiting to be liberated.

I pulled my hat from the bedpost and filled my arms once more with every brush and color I could carry. In my rush, I’m sure every man in the inn thought I was skipping rent; perhaps worth noting that I very much was. 

Bursting down the street, I laughed. Sometimes I mistake myself as clever, thinking the patterns of the world are complete, that an individual can see them all. Yet the boy reminds me that I could spend a lifetime taking the details, and still miss the simplest things. Compassion brought Guillaume to me, and his kindness kept him returning. I’ve seen the world, but I hadn’t a clue about what it meant until the boy put it on paper, and calmed the chaos in my mind. 

I had nearly made it out of town when I spotted Guillaume packing his market stall at the end of the street. We shared a smile, my words may forever fail me, but the sincerity that washed over my demeanor portrayed the highest compliment I could give. 

I waved, the only action I could think to take. Any words I could share would almost certainly be his. 

Behind him, the unmistakable silhouette of The Lady brought a natural conclusion to our moment. She cried out “Pierre, you owe me!”. She picked up her heavy bell dress and started making her way towards me. 

“I’ll throw your clothes in the street if you dodge me again - are you listening, Pierre?” 

The vendors oohed and heckled, cheering on The Lady on in a spectacle of frustration. 

She passed Guillaume, who needed to comfort his horse from the shrill calls of my landlady. The boy chuckled and shrugged, looking my way. It was reciprocal; I tipped my straw hat like an out-of-luck gentleman, and scurried out of town “Merci, Guillaume" I quietly acknowledged. 

The dying light of the day was taking its last breath by the river, but my brush swarmed furiously around. I was unable to move, to think, so lost in the moment having to remind myself to blink. 

Upon finishing, there was a lingering wonder. I looked into it through a window. It was the very world I was seeking, the one I built. I saw purple bricks of the shops sway with the trees in front of me, vining out of the cracks. Plants and animals moved freely, without worry. I placed my finger on the canvas to see if my eyes were liars, but instead, a brisk membrane gave way to my hand. I turned my hand, to see shades of myself I never thought I could find. Somewhere in that tightly wound fabric, the chaos that separates my body and my mind is gone. There, I could be free. 

They’ll say I died - or finally let my mind break away. They can say what they like; because it’ll be true. To them, I’m everywhere and nowhere. 

I’ll miss the kindness of the boy, but I know he’d understand. For now, though, I’d like to rest in a moment of peace in my mind he gave to me. 

Though I wish I could repay his kindness for everything it was worth and more, I hope that he can accept a small token with the knowledge such a task would be impossible. 

When the boy comes looking for me, upon the easel by the river, he’ll find a toucan living on a canvas waiting for him.