Funny how colors can tell a story.
Marco’s brush lay lethargically in his hand. The tool that had created such bright landscapes, bringing joy and hope, ecstasy and love, excitement and peace to so many, now sat paralyzed. In these moments, the world was filled with gray.
The artist knew how to elicit emotion with a simple choice of hue. Green was the color of envy; red communicated love; yellow, the color of cowardice; black, the mark of despair. When used in their purest form, the results could be volatile, eliciting sharp feelings with raw intensity. When combined appropriately, the colors told a much more nuanced story.
The Waterfall was his most famous work. A sky of light blue sparsely populated with cotton ball clouds oversaw a soft meadow on the edge of a peaceful lake. Behind the body of water, an inspiring mountainside centered around a coursing waterfall, pulsing with life. The soft browns and greens of the surrounding forest were home to many woodland creatures that interjected vibrant interruptions, sparking joy in a viewer. The sharp red of a cardinal pierced a tree on the forefront of the canvas; nearby, a gold and black monarch butterfly fluttered across a patch of brilliantly colored wildflowers; at the edge of a clearing, a fawn with pure white spots leaped in joy.
The painter remembered the day he’d created this work. His child had been born hours earlier; while mother and daughter rested at the hospital, Marco took brush in hand and poured his joy into blissful imagination, bringing a dull canvas on a wooden frame alive in a scene of vivid vitality.
Then, there was Shadowlands, a morose piece that one critic had called “deeply disturbed.” The night he’d gotten the call that his best friend’s life had been cut short in a horrendous traffic accident, Marco’s brush slashed the canvas in impotent rage. The colors combined to create pits of molten lava and plumes of sulfur, depicting a hellish landscape. Marco’s pain bled from the very paint that coursed from his brush in short, sharp strokes, the artist’s wrist jabbing at the painting in much the same way that a boxer strikes his foe.
Victorious was his wife’s favorite. He’d spent nearly 24 hours straight to bring the piece to life. The lifelike figure of a knight filled the center, his armor blackened with soot and covered with indentations that communicated an exhausting battle. He stood, his sword upraised in a symbol of triumph over the rancorous corpse of a slain dragon. The landscape was scorched with singed areas showing where the dragon had struck, and the context of a brutal onslaught further emphasized how glorious the knight’s final victory had been. Earlier that day, he’d gotten the call that his art would be featured in one of the premier galleries in New York City, something that had been his dream since he was a young boy with a set of dollar-store watercolors.
The artist sat in his studio, perched on his stool before the blank canvas. Surrounding him were numerous works in various stages of completion, some filled with the vibrant hues of nature in the forest, the savannah, or the ocean. There were scenes that communicated life in a busy city: street urchins playing stickball in the slums, children laughingly exploring an urban playground surrounded by walls tagged with graffiti, and the animated effervescence of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Painting after painting marked his artistic evolution, how he had explored various genres designed to elicit emotions in their sharpest or softest forms. By all accounts, the fruit of his work demonstrated a successful pursuit in his chosen artistic medium.
And yet he sat, forlorn. An hour before, he’d absentmindedly squeezed dollops of paint from several tubes onto the handheld palette, now perched lifelessly on his right arm. Had he bothered to look down to see the unmixed shades, he would have known they communicated his emotion at the moment. A dingy white lay adjacent to a dirty gray, which itself sat across from an ashy black. The color of shadows, these tints could add depth to a painting, pushing the main images forth into the spotlight in three-dimensional perspectives. The monochromatic tones could create outline and context, their contrast permitting the artist’s intent to come forward in sharp contrast.
But sitting alone, they were simply a reflection of hopelessness.
By their very nature, artists feel more deeply than most. The degree to which they can communicate profound truths and elicit emotion in others is a reflection of how intimately they dance with their own feelings. Many artists struggle with depression, anxiety, and various other mental health issues. At their best, they are buoyed by brilliance; at their worst, they are dragged unwillingly into the depths in despair.
Marco was no different than any other skilled practitioner of the arts. His beliefs about the life he lived were showcased in his work, regardless of how accurate or erroneous those perceptions might be. He’d been penniless but filled with joy, unbelievably depressed while unimaginably wealthy, and lonely in the midst of a crowd. That tangled web of emotions reflecting his outlook could be empathized with by many, but truly understood by only a few.
His journal entries of late were characterized by pain, his struggle to grow amid an awakening realization of his past. For years, he had pressed forward, ignoring the agony of his childhood and the anguish of his more recent history, assuming that enough achievement could put the ingrained failure he felt in his soul firmly in its grave. Instead, the more deeply he had shoved the skeletons into the closet, the more pressure they exerted to emerge.
Over the past six years, his life had slowly fallen apart. His wife had left him and taken their daughter, and the ensuing spiral of hopelessness had driven him to drink, absorbing alcohol like a sieve. Disappointed in how his forlorn despondency had manifested, the church that had been a bastion of hope since childhood had informed him that he was no longer welcome. As he sunk deeper into the wretched tribulation that characterized his very existence, his immediate family had walked away, never to return. Rejection and dejection were his ever-present companions. The sharp features of his handsome face had grown dull with detachment, communicating a sense of melancholy that was the very antithesis of inspiration.
A closer inspection of his surroundings would have revealed the dust that sat upon the canvases, communicating that his talent had become dormant with every renewed encounter with discouragement. The few friends who remained had asked him what they could do to help, but he hadn’t an answer. When he managed to muster the courage to look at his phone, his return texts were branded with a faux rhapsody he hadn’t felt for years. Although every fiber of his being silently cried for help, he casually dismissed any offers of assistance with an air of impervious invincibility. And after each text, he’d reach for the fifth of whiskey that his hand held far more frequently than the brush these days, taking a swig of liquid solitude.
The honest answer was that he didn’t know what to do. The map to recovery remained blank to him, its features seemingly written with invisible ink. Part of him didn’t want to find a way out; the punishment he meted unto himself daily was something he felt he deserved, and he wallowed in self-pity as a hog does in the mud. Over time, his circle of friends had shrunk, atrophied through inattention and an inability to engage. Subconsciously, his loneliness sought a self-reinforcing pattern of actions that forced abandonment, then immediately turned and internally screamed how worthless he truly was. He attempted to drown the voice with liquor, but it never quite went away.
What he needed was someone to believe in him.
What he failed to see were those who did.
Marco sat dejectedly and stared at the canvas. He had drifted into his own world when there came a loud knock at the door and the friendly hail of a delivery driver. Startled, the man spun, knocking over a can of red paint that had been used on a furniture product that morning; in his absentminded state, he’d forgotten to replace the top. A bright red slash appeared over the center of his canvas, and he instantly saw red, both literally and figuratively.
“DAMMIT!!” he shouted, exasperated at his mistake. He chewed himself out in his head, sarcastically remarking about that being yet another thing he’d fucked up. He couldn’t do anything right. This was just another in a series of failures that…
His negative self-talk was interrupted by the canvas. The knock at the door suddenly forgotten, he stared at the lines of paint slowly dripping downward, pulled by gravity in an unrelenting call. Slowly, inspiration gripped him. The canvas became a smaller part of an overall picture, and he walked backward until he reached the rear wall of the studio. Now fifteen feet away, Marco stared at the easel standing before the large bay windows that framed the front of the room. Slowly, everything else melted away in his mind until nothing but the canvas remained, centered in his consciousness. That’s when he saw it.
The artist threw himself into his work, the next eighteen hours passing as if they were nothing. First one canvas, then another was outlined, their foundations painted, then set aside as another took its place. When Marco ran out of blanks, he paused to build frames, stretching and then tacking cloth over them to generate another landscape that would form a crucial aspect of the composite he was creating.
By the time the sun rose the next morning, the initial sketch was complete. The artist stepped back and examined his work with a critical eye. Satisfied with his progress thus far, he went straight to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and collapsed into a deep slumber—the first good sleep he’d had in weeks. Four hours later, he awakened, driven by a subconscious call to continue his work. Throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, he practically ran to the studio and began anew.
The next four days continued in the same pattern: the painter would work until he was too exhausted to hold the brush steady, sleep for a few hours, then continue in a mad rush of inspiration. By Saturday, it was done. He pulled his A-frame ladder from the garage, grabbed a hammer, nails, and measuring tape, then assembled the composite on the wall of his living room.
After he had checked the leveling across the nine canvases, Marco stepped back and examined his assembled, completed work for the first time. The centerpiece was marked with the original red slash, which had become an open wound across a patient’s side. Surrounding him was a team of healthcare professionals, each doing their part to save his life. Behind them was a large plate glass window, its space filled with faces. A mother and father stood, arms around each other, expressions of fear and love evident on their faces. Four others appeared beside them, of the same age as the patient and obviously friends. Genuine concern and affection were apparent in every feature of their countenances.
Down the hall, a doorway stood partially open, a man frantically shoving his way inside at desperate speed. A glance between the patient and the man at the door showed they were twins. Other details came into view. One of the friends, her arms crossed in a self-embrace of apprehension, clutched a cell phone, its screen facing outward. A text preview was evident, and the words on it communicated a panicked query about the patient’s wellbeing.
The right side of the painting faded into another image, indicating physical distance. An older man and woman knelt before their coffee table, hands clasped in prayer, brows furrowed in deep concentration. Between the hospital and living room scenes, bright figures descended from above in apparent response to the couple’s pleas. One had already arrived and stood behind the surgeon, wings folded, his powerful, translucent arms subtly guiding the doctor’s hands.
Marco reflected on every detail, then pulled his view back to see the whole composite picture. The emotion that the painting communicated was powerful and intense. One could almost feel the love emanating from the canvases, care and warmth surrounding the central figure on the operating table in a protective embrace.
Satisfaction slowly transitioned to self-pity within the artist. He sat down on the nearby ottoman, lowering his gaze from the image, suddenly unable to look at the picture of fervent devotion. Marco’s thoughts turned to everyone who had rejected him and dwelt on all those he had lost. Self-pity turned to disappointment, which quickly gave way to despair. The intense inspiration of the previous week had drawn him to emotional heights he hadn’t felt in years, and he felt in his soul that the view from the mountaintop had transitioned to the edge of a cliff from which he now fell. He barely made it to the bedroom before he collapsed, not even bothering to remove his paint-stained clothing. Curling into a ball, he pulled the covers over his head and wept despondent tears.
When he woke, there was no telling how much time had passed. It was dark, and hunger filled him, growling from his belly like an insatiable beast. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. The painter drug himself from his bed, groggily stumbling toward the refrigerator. He opened it, the light shocking his sleep-heavy eyes with its intensity. Slowly, they adjusted, and Marco blinked his eyelids several times before he was able to examine the shelves. They were bare. This wasn’t surprising, as his normal routines had been disrupted by severe depression; he hadn’t been grocery shopping in weeks.
“Just like my life… empty,” the bitter voice inside of him whispered, its words followed by a mocking chortle. He decided to order delivery and found his cell phone where he’d left it days before on the kitchen table. Marco pressed his thumb to the center button, but nothing happened. The battery was dead. “Great, just like my soul—dead,” the painter angrily stated, aloud this time. He plugged the phone into the charger and, unwilling to wait for it to power up, grabbed his keys and headed for the front door.
Resenting even the presence of light, he failed to flip the switch for his front porch as he headed out. One step forward, and his foot hit an object. Marco’s momentum had already committed him forward, and his upper body proceeded where his lower body refused to go. He fell, hands splayed in front to catch himself. His hand hit a potted plant, splitting it into shards; a sharp pain sliced across his palm, causing instant agony. “AAARGGHHHHH!!!” The man’s yell stemmed less from the physical hurt he felt and more from the anger that now filled every inch of his body with unyielding ferocity.
The painter leaped to his feet and turned to vent his frustration on the object that had driven his fall, in that moment blaming it for the entirety of his life struggles. The light spilling forth from the hallway and through the open door illuminated what he’d failed to notice as he walked out.
Centered on the threshold was a pile of boxes that had been neatly stacked prior to his unintentional onslaught. Immediately adjacent to them was a plastic container piled high with envelopes. Rage melted from his body, curiosity quickly taking its place. The pain from his hand temporarily forgotten, Marco picked up the first box he encountered. It was a small package, and the address label listed his cousin as the sender. The artist used his keys to rip open the packaging and pulled out the contents. There was a small, framed photograph of the two as boys, sitting on a pier at the lake they visited each summer of their childhoods for family reunions. Marco remembered the warm nights, the bonfires, the laughter. Nostalgia filled him as he flipped the frame over. There, on the back, a small note was taped. He unfolded it and read the handwritten words.
“Hey man, I know you’ve been going through it of late. I’m planning a family trip next month to Lake Winnetonka, and I’d love it if you’d come. I want to relive those memories with my kids, and it wouldn’t be the same without you. Love ya, Freddy”
The painter slowly placed the frame back in the box, then set it down. He pulled another from the pile, this one from a close high school friend. When the tape was removed, the cardboard flaps sprung open, and glitter erupted from the prank bomb placed inside. For the first time in a long while, Marco smiled. He and Jared had been the class clowns, each week of their senior year yielding another practical joke that plagued teachers and school staff alike, much to the enjoyment of their fellow students. Bright memories of laughter to the point of silent, gasping, tear-soaked expressions came to mind, and he reached inside to find a greeting card. The man opened it to find the word “GOTCHA!” emblazoned in bold, black sharpie. Beneath it, Jared had written:
“Duuuuuuude! It’s been too long! I’m coming through there the weekend of the 21st on a business trip. Mind if I crash at your place?? Been dying to see you!”
Package after package produced the same results. Small mementos, encouraging notes, and trinkets that indicated inside jokes poured forth in tangible expressions of love. Marco had made it halfway through the pile when he glanced at the box of mail. He picked up a stack of envelopes and rapidly rifled through them. Expecting bills, he was shocked to see handwritten addresses time and again. He ripped open one in the middle that caught his eye. It was from an old girlfriend; they’d split on amicable terms in college and remained friends in the years since. The words sprang from the page so powerfully that he sat back, leaning against the wall of the house for support.
The letter told of a dark time she’d experienced three years prior, something she had never revealed to anyone. Everything seemed lost, and darkness had surrounded her like a palpable cloud of despair. One night, the demons had overpowered her. She had picked up a knife and placed it at her wrist, determined to end everything, when the phone rang. It had been Marco. The random call quickly turned into a three-hour conversation that gave her the encouragement she needed to pivot and begin her recovery. He had saved her life.
The artist dropped the pages between his legs, awestruck at what he had read. As the pages fell, he noticed that the right side of the paper was stained in red. Marco remembered the wound his hand had suffered when he fell, and he stood up, walking inside to retrieve a bandage. Halfway through the living room, something stopped him. An invisible force halted him as suddenly as if he’d run into an actual wall. Momentarily confused, he glanced around. The composite painting caught his attention, and his eyes were drawn to the bright red slash at the center. Dazed, the painter slowly drew his hand up in front of him, aligning it with the painting in his line of sight.
The red slashes were identical.
Emotions too varied and complicated to describe knocked Marco to the ground. He stared up at the painting, then back at his hand. The entirety of the scene hit him, and the faces he’d painted shifted into the images of his cousin, his friend, and former girlfriend. Dazed, the painter looked at the patient lying on the operating table. The face was his own.
Tears poured from his eyes as all of the pain and anguish he’d packed inside for years came rushing out like a flood. The man wept, sobs wracking his entire body in repeated convulsions. He wrapped his arms around himself, and the embrace became more powerful as he felt the love that he’d just experienced on his porch surround him in a cloud of support.
After a time, he quieted, utterly drained from the intense emotions he’d just experienced. Marco lay on the floor, staring up at the painting. Exhausted, his eyes drifted to the bottom right corner of the final piece he had painted. There lay the triple V that was his artist mark, the initials referring to his family motto: “Virescit Vulnere Virtus,” Latin for “Strength through a wound.”
The painter clenched his fist tightly, the cut on his palm stinging, clearing the fog from his eyes and filling him with a sense of peace. For the first time, he knew he would make it. Everything was going to be okay.
Beautiful, Brutal Truth 