Painting

A Story by czech

used a description of a painting to portray aspects of life

It smelled of canvas. This was deceiving, as it was so much more. It was visually appealing as well as intellectually intriguing, but it was not desired as a trophy to mount upon the wall. It was desired as a window. A man created it with the help of a feather clad blade, he ripped deep inside of his chest and brought forth color. He refined the splatter upon his backdrop, and sculpted it into a mirror image. He shaped it after a flower, a trapdoor that when sprung drops you into the depths of his consciousness. A facade defaced with color and texture. It would eventually be torn down and sold in gift shops.
Pale blue was snuggled into every corner, and slept under a blanket of water. This was deep and cold, void of bubbles, seemingly infinite. rendered obscure by ripples, ever stretching for the picture frame. The focal point was a nest of red folds hiding from yellow streaks behind a weave of pale green leafs. Though completely engulfed by water, this flower showed no traces of saturation. Its leaves were old, wispy and frail, burdened by the steady decay of age. Its petals were bathing in their autonomy.
Hidden in the obscure faces of these pedals was life. The artist made it barely visible, but upon close examination, one can see the most valiant of movements riding around inside their transparent veins. They were painted in a restless red that was contained against its will, and to its discontent, eternally. It was mounted upon the pedals as a feral beast that the land had killed and claimed as its own.
The painting as a whole held the limpidity of formaldehyde. The stem, just at its point of amputation, hung submerged in the the water. It lay bending itself for a better view of the depths. It was searching for its old friend land with its concave eyes. It longed to plant itself again upon a constant plot of soil, to grow its roots deep and wide so as to keep everything in place.
Spiraling downward in the bottom left hand corner of the painting was a glove crafted of such impracticality that it taunted the rose. It called to it from subliminal ripples and was never answered. Golden brown trimming and a frail square palm were just barely noticeable through the reflection of the setting sun.
Every purple, red orange and yellow held in the painters arsenal were extinguished in this display. It stretched no farther than a few inches upon the canvas, but was so incredibly textured and vile in its betrayal of the overall tone, that it stood alone. Everything took on its weight in grey because of this. This was anticipated, and through its grievances grey was made beautiful, toppling the skid mark of sun.
A current could be faintly seen through the slight conformity of the ripples. It was headed towards the upper left side of the painting, stretching the flower and the glove apart, but never freeing the flower from the ever present blotch of sun plopped onto the surface behind it. The flower was positioned comfortably inside it, and almost seemed to not even notice it at all, though it does seem more out of repression than indifference. the constant tug of this force keeps the painting together and proportional, yet allows it to thrive in its own environment, free of the sight of land, and eventually the glove, but never quite allowing it to escape the sun.