I set my canvas up across the pond from a tree that wore the dazzling raiments of the late afternoon sun with shadows rendered in beautifully contrasting shades of blue. Spot, my loyal Jack Russell Terrier, sat down in my sightline gazing at me in admiration. I dipped a brush in one of the vibrant splashes of acrylic that adorned my palette and set to work. I only had twenty minutes, at best, to capture the essence of the image before the light would change and with it every color I saw.
By the time this happened, with Spot whining his frustration at our immobility, I had captured the left hand side of the tree where the light struck it from across the bay, the surface of the pond in all its reflective glory, and Spot’s adoring visage. That was enough for me to finish later in my studio from memory.
My easel folded up into a wooden carrying case that also accommodated my paints and supplies. It had a carrying handle that allowed me to hold it and Spot’s leash at the same time. In my other hand, I carefully held the wet canvas by one of its edges. We set off down the path towards home.
I was living the dream in a stately old Alameda Victorian that I had picked up at a tax auction for a fraction of its value. It had been the scene of a grisly murder-suicide. Other interested parties who had inspected the property, including normally ice-blooded investors, reported that it was haunted. Not just the groans and creaks of an old house that are mistaken for ghostly footsteps or a poor leveling job that leads to doors mysteriously opening and closing, but something else. Something primal. A dark foreboding that compelled them to disassociate themselves from the property altogether. I had heard the stories and when I first entered the property, I did so with the same respect that you would confer upon any house that is occupied. I introduced myself and asked permission. I interpreted the warm, welcoming atmosphere of this beautiful relic of a bygone era as consent.
I converted the room that had been the library into my art studio. When I got home with Spot, I set the painting down to dry with my palette next to it. I didn’t clean it, so that when I returned to my work I could see the exact color combinations that I had been working with. After a simple supper of salmon and pumpernickel, I went upstairs and wrote in my journal for a few hours before retiring.
I was awoken in the middle of the night by a cold touch. It was Spot’s nose. He was whining and looking at me with imploring eyes.At the foot of the stairs he pointed to my studio. The painting had transformed. It was now covered with dark visages and a variety of handprints rendered with my acrylics. I seemed to have collaborators.
Literature in Small Doses 