Scarlet, Circles, and Dreams

Click! As light suddenly explodes off an aluminum reflector surrounding a flood lamp clamped to a nearby bookcase, my momentarily blinded eyes struggle to recover from the blast of brightness that now engulfs a large stretched canvas. It rests on Honza’s handmade easel in front of his makeshift pulley system—an inventive contraption he has devised that allows him to paint on huge unstretched canvas tarps. I also have tended to paint large over the years, but most of my canvases are dwarfed by the 6′ ´ 10′ tarps he paints while they suspend from the 14′ high exposed wooden ceiling joists that loom above his studio space. My eyes, glad to once again see color instead of the blinding reflection of light, begin to focus on the painting in front of me as they take in the totality of the piece. My brain catches up quickly with the images my eyes are sending it from the painting. As it does, I think, You’ve done it, Honza! It’s a masterpiece! Before my mouth is able to speak words of any congratulations out loud, I’m compelled to look at my watch. The time 11:56.14 a.m. sears into my mind. My eyes return to the painting while my mouth readies itself to voice to Honza a job well done. Momentarily unconcerned about speaking, I find myself spellbound as I watch one of the young female sunbathers in the painting begin to emerge from the canvas. Confirming with myself that my decision to enter the building was a poor one, I can’t help but think about … Oh no! Here we go again! “Honza! Can you hear me, Honza?” In a frantic, uncontrolled slow-motion turn of my head, I attempt to get Honza’s attention. But it’s too late; he already appears to be stiff and lifeless as if frozen in time. Immediately, my attention shifts back to the painting, where the upper half of the emerging sunbather’s body continues to somehow lift itself off the surface of the canvas and expand three-dimensionally. It’s as if part of her is being filled with air and floating to life. A life-size portion of this young barely adolescent woman’s body is now hovering right in front of me. As she reaches forward, I willingly let her grasp hold of one of my hands. Without making eye contact, her other hand soon finds its way to my other hand. Now both of my hands are in her cold, seemingly unsettled although discernibly determined grasp as our fingers interlock as if in a sign of solidarity. I tell myself that what I’m experiencing can’t actually be happening. As I do, I begin to feel the strength of the woman’s arms attempting to pull me toward a perceived anguish that Honza has incorporated into the imaginative scene a few feet in front of me, a scene this woman has managed to partially escape from. Unexpectedly, I sense a resistance on my part to the pull of youth’s hands. It is a dissent I am not consciously responsible for. It is as if something—a power, an authority—is holding me back, not wanting me to give in to her unspoken appeal to enter into her world. But I intuitively know I must give in and let her pull take me to a place I need to go. Struggling to overcome the defiant force within me, I begin to experience not only the peculiar cold of what should be sun-warmed hands that are tightly clasping mine but also the hideous despair inside this innocent, self-conscious very young woman. The girl seems to feel shame by the thought of being gawked at by the group of shadowy, undefined faces making up the painting’s collection of voyeuristic men. This frightened woman’s childlike hands keep pulling me as if to save her very life. Then as the chill of cold hands passes through my body, I discern the young woman’s fear that my decision will be as it has been before, when dealing with the woman in the Picasso painting, a decision to resist her pull and play it safe within the predictable confines of my own existence. I sense the thought overwhelms the girl. The determined force influencing me to oppose her pull is strong, despite the fact that I have already made up my mind to follow her wherever she may take me. Maybe the only purpose of her silent plea is for me to break up the nondescript pack of reprobate men, who, like the dogs they are, have no respect for either women or children. I am amazed by my awareness of the sunbather’s emotions, and I can’t wait to ask Honza if he is also aware of them. After all, he has painted her with them. I’m betting they’re buried deep in his subconscious and his answer will be no. But knowing Honza, if he had the chance to take such a bet, it would be along with taking my money as he proved me wrong. He is as intuitive with his work as I try to be with mine. He has to be aware of them. My challenge will be to figure out a way to ask him without having to explain why because I’m nowhere close to ready when it comes to sharing any of the bizarre encounters I’ve experienced over the past few years, let alone this one.