BOOKWORMS SHORT STORY COMPETITION
COLOURS by Karen Drake
The subdued gallery lights complemented, perfectly, the muted lines on the canvases adorning the walls. The pink champagne glittered and fizzed in the crystal saucers hired for the occasion. Although less practical than flutes, Jonathan championed them as a more glamorous option; to him they conjured up images of characters from his favourite F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. The beautiful and the damned. There were certainly some lookers here tonight, although without the elegant allure of his literary heroines, and some of them were certainly trapped in a façade of an existence, although maybe damned is too harsh a word. The type of women here tonight, Jonathan reflected, always seem to be trying too hard in a brash, obvious way; demanding a reaction rather than confidently and quietly knowing they deserved one. False nails, false boobs, false eyelashes, hairpieces, and surely noone has eyes that colour of green, thought Jonathan as he spotted a young woman with strawberry blonde hair, wearing a tight emerald green sheath dress. Although, he mused, she is very pretty in an obvious way. This room is crammed with it, he thought: all sparkle and no substance. How on earth did I become a part of this? Suddenly he heard a rather too shrill female voice shrieking "Such fabulous talent. I don't know how I could possibly have missed this before. Who is the artist? I should meet him. I feel we could have met in a past life. He so reaches out to me. Do you know what I mean? I really must phone Clive and get him here at once... working late... another meeting... super, super darling... champagne? Rude not to..."
Bored, Jonathan drifted off into his own thoughts, remembering a tiny basement, a makeshift studio and a passion for pouring out his feelings onto paper, canvas or cheap chipboard - anything he could get his hands on at the time, since he was on a very limited income. His pictures, then, were vibrant and fiery, overflowing with life and intensity. He was secretly drawn to the glamour of the 1920s, imagining happy, rich, people without a care in the world, wearing luxuriously dyed flamboyant clothing and living life with a freedom that only the wealthy could afford. He was fascinated by all things that suggested zeal, freedom, colour, and that is what mostly inspired his work. He always knew that he was too educated to be delivering pizzas for a living, having achieved a degree in fine art. However, he was very jealous of his creative time and, in that young and careless way, didn't feel that he wanted to spend every anxious waking hour trying, ambitiously, to climb the career ladder. Jonathan had inherited modestly on the death of his grandparents and did not have a lavish lifestyle, simply because he could not afford one, so the money stretched far enough to allow him his artistic pursuits. There comes a point in every life, however, when a little more money is needed and it was at that point in Jonathan's life that he decided he was prepared to part with some of his colourful creations for money. As young and innocent as he was, he assumed that this would be an easy task. However, it appeared that his tastes were not necessarily other people's and he was turned down time and time again by this gallery and that until he tired of writing letters and trudging round them day after day. He briefly rented a pitch on Bayswater Road but hardly sold a piece so decided to give it up after a few weeks. Some of his friends said that the best thing that could happen was for him to die in a gory accident or suffer a grisly murder. Then, they assured him, everyone will want to buy your pictures. Jonathan pointed out that that would hardly solve his present predicament but agreed that it seemed to be the only way his pictures would ever sell, and that the time had come for him to become a responsible member of society and get a proper job. This depressed him somewhat but he knew it had to be done and he began to apply for jobs. He even bought an Armani suit in a charity shop in Chelsea in anticipation of the interviews to come. Smiling to himself, he recalled how that fortuitous Sunday - the last of his Bayswater Road Sundays - his luck had changed. She was dazzling, with deep auburn hair and flashing green eyes. She was also rich and she loved his paintings; and him. With a giddying rapidity, he was transported into her world of wealth. Sometimes he had the feeling that he was some exotic pet, being shown off to all her spoilt friends; but he was so overwhelmed by his new life that he put that out of his mind, realising that he was actually quite enjoying the attention he was receiving and the sensation of being around people who would thoughtlessly lavish huge amounts of money on the next thing that caught their fancy. After all, it was such a big novelty. Of course, she immediately hung his works all over the walls in her Kensington apartment and invited all her friends to view them. Jonathan's paintings had become, in the blink of an eye, the "must have" paintings of the moment. A stunning blonde-haired woman in a shimmering pink creation touched him lightly on the sleeve of his grey cashmere crew neck, startling him back to the present. She simpered and pawed at him, complimenting him on his fabulous talent, all the while gazing up at him from underneath false eyelashes with implausible blue eyes. Not only had his paintings become a "must have" but, apparently, so had he. With his brooding dark brown eyes and jet-black hair, he was by any standards handsome but totally unaware of it, as only the truly beautiful can be. He had to stifle a yawn and quickly excused himself, slipping outside, hopefully unnoticed into the cool night air. Breathing deeply, he looked at the sky. As usual, the stars were hardly visible because of the city light pollution. At once, he felt trapped and confined. He wished he could fly over the rooftops and alight in a fresh green field brimming with bright red poppies, virginal daisies and yellow buttercups, sit beneath the branches of a leaf-laden tree, by a fast flowing river and start afresh. His eyes were drawn to the light of the gallery like a moth to a light trap and he wondered what was wrong with all those people inside. Could they not see that the paintings on the wall were no good? The self that had gone into those was jaded, going through the motions, a commercial entity. He no longer enjoyed what he did. The pictures were pleasing to the eye but in a bland, part of the furniture, way. The type of picture you would buy because it matched the décor in a particular room. Not the picture you would buy because you could feel some of the devotion of the artist spilling out of it. These pictures were without the raw flamboyance of his previous work. It began to drizzle gently. He had no coat on, so started to go back inside away from the impending rain. Unexpectedly he stopped and turned. The rain gathered momentum and so did he. He started to walk quickly away and then to run, arms outstretched and face to the sky, drinking in every drop, his cashmere sweater ruining more with every step. People were staring at him and standing aside but he didn't care. He was flying across London to the basement flat that he hadn't been anywhere near for months. He was going home to where he was creative. He was saying goodbye to the insincere beauty of his recent existence. He was leaving the woman he had thought he loved, but now he knew, with clarity, those feelings had been something entirely different. He didn't need her anymore. He had been flattered, grateful and besieged, unable to think clearly. The beauty he sought was free and natural; kind and genuine; passionate and unfettered. Jonathan imagined searching for his key behind the loose brick in the wall near the front door. He was opening the door now. The flat would be dark and dingy, as it had always been. It would be untidy - papers strewn around, books in a heap on the coffee table, cushions sliding off the settee and onto the carpet. The vivid picture in his head gave Jonathan the feeling of freedom that he had lost until ten minutes ago. His mind began to soar. He saw colour and vibrancy. When he finally reached his home, he knew just what he was going to do - he was going to paint.
