The painting is hanging inconspicuous, tame and quiet against the wall.
That is not what it truly is or how it came to be. There was a time when it first lied helpless and bare on the ground waiting for the master to weave its magic in between the fibers of its canvas.
Memorise the way the lines are criss-crossing, twisting and bending unnaturally. Commit the colours and shades on the back of your eyelids.
Now, let yourself be carried away. Close your eyes. Extract the paint from the frame and see it flying all around. Do you see the canvas blank and bare at your feet ?
The paint is swirling and swooshing all around you. Can you feel it, grazing your fingers, slashing your cheeks, twisting up around your wrists and tickling the nape of your neck ?
A storm of colours raging all around you.
A chaotic ballet where none of the performers have agreed on the dance that is being performed.
The paint is raining upside down, sharply curving from right to left and left to right,  defying the laws of physics. It is not water after all, it is paint and paint likes to misbehave.
It is now getting much closer, seeping through your skin, thickening your blood and sinking in your bones, chemicals lying heavy on the back of your tongue, bitter and acrid. It tastes of gasoline, grass and burning plastic.
The energy buzzing from every drop is almost too much, on the verge of being unbearable, threatening to unravel your entire being, bones too heavy, skin too tight and lungs on fire.
The master’s raw voice cuts through the disorganised fog, growling “Enough!”. A click of his fingers and the silent emptiness is back. Your body is light again and sweet oxygen rushes back in your lungs, in your blood, in your bones. Open your eyes and look.

The painting is hanging  inconspicuous, tamed and quiet against the wall


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