And then, there was light…

That morning had the finished ambiance of a studio left to sleep by the artist, tired, or simply content.

Achieved paintings were there, but sensed, rather than seen, propped against the walls of air and enshrouded in sheets of a quietness so dense, one could actually pick up its folds between thumb and finger, and rub, rub, like a child in the performance of that soothing, tactile mantra with a favourite blanket.

And then, there was that colourlessness which does not happen unless all the colours have been thoroughly indulged in, you know, that restful, perhaps a tad too cool, damp cylindrical stance of the glass in which the artist rinses his paintbrushes.

And there was that impression, floating like fibers that may or may not come to assemble in a bundle which, in turn, may or may not come to take a shape, of more than a model – or more than a muse – for the next doodle or masterpiece.

Yes, that morning had the finished ambiance of a world come to its end and yet, it had all those features, all the elements that filter through one’s pores, as if one were made of clay, and that, somehow, instill a quiver, then a breath, and then a torrent of blood, a pulse, and an essence, as in a creature or indeed in a whole new creation impending.

Then, suddenly, I understood. And when I did, in my veins, in my lips parting, in my arms outstretched, and in that abrupt rustle of a thousand awakening wings on a thousand outlines of boughs… the knob on the studio door turned – and, with a mist still lingering to his frock but holding a crimson and amber-splashed palette in his hand, and a beginning on his face… the artist glowed in.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®