Portfolio

Some doodling for the idea of a trilogy of bird books after ‘Crows on the Dancefloor’ is published. One book would be folllowing a pair of twin seagulls, and another book would following a pigeon with problems at home. The idea here is that these books could help kids that feel different then other kids. I’ve felt like that growing up and I know how lonely it can feel.

A short story based on a painting. This short story is from Twisty Tales 2, a continuation of Twisty Tales which Ninke is working on.

Impressionistic

My coffee feels warm in my hands. I pour some milk into the cup and swirl it around. Then I open up my laptop and go to work. The story needs to be finished by Monday… only 3 days left and still the entire story left to write. I tick my finger nails on the table. Clickety clack. Should be typing right now, but what?

 I look around for … inspiration. A couple of paintings decorate the walls. As I roam them over, I think of how I got some of them. A couple I got from secondhand stores, galleries or exhibitions. Others I got from my mom or from my friend Bob. When I invite them both over, they spill wine on my table while spilling stories about art. Two paintings are most special to me.

 One is the one I found in an art gallery in Boston. It’s an abstract piece. Bright colors and big strokes make up the 3 by 3-meter painting. What pops out most is the huge pink stroke in the middle. It had been equal to a 1-month’s salary, but it was worth every word I’d written.  

 My other favorite painting is the one I got from my mom. It’s a smaller 60 by 60-centimeter impressionistic painting of a clothesline with white sheets and white clothes hanging on it. The line hangs outside someone’s appartement right above a balcony lined with baskets filled with flowers. Presumably in Portugal or Italy, judging from the sunny weather and the colorful houses. My mom picked up the painting somewhere outside a house next to the garbage. It baffles me what people throw away.

 The clothesline looks like it could move with the wind at any moment, like it’s about… to come alive. I look back at my screen… ‘come alive’… Bingo! I’ll write about zombies! I type about a corpse coming alive after a horrific death that caused them to lose both their hands. I lose focus after writing about the zombie trying to open doors. I look back at the painting with the clothesline. Just behind one of the white sheets, it seems like a woman is peeking. I didn’t notice her at first, but now that she caught my attention, she’s the only thing I can look at. She seems to have dark brown hair hanging loose on her tanned shoulders. One eye is barely visible, the rest of her face is hidden behind the sheet.

 Looking back at my screen, I start writing about a zombie with just one eye. He keeps bonking into his friend without hands. Together they make a magnificent pair. This painting is giving me a story. Not one you’d expect, but one that will surely entertain the people. I look back at the painting, wanting to suck every bit of inspiration I can get out of it. The woman is now much more visible than the other time I looked at it. I don’t know how, but it seems the painting has changed. There can’t be any other reason, for she is fully on display now. She is wearing clothes, but she is fully visible.

 I walk up to it, mouth slightly open and one hand stretched out. She was now standing on the balcony between a hanging sheet and a t-shirt. It appeared like she was looking straight at me. I put my hand slowly on the canvas, hoping to feel that it was wet. That somebody had fooled me, painted it, anything to explain this. But it felt bone-dry. I blinked. Then again. I hoped she’d disappear. I must be hallucinating. I blinked again, and just like that, she had moved again. She seemed to wave at me now. I turned around and looked at my laptop. I’m going insane. That must be it. No other reason. I must be going insane.

 The most deranged part of this all was that I thought she looked pretty. She reminded me of an old friend I had in college. How could I be thinking about Laura while losing my mind? Am I dead as well? I had wished so for a long time after her passing. Maybe my prayers were now being answered with delay? I shook my head, hoping to lose the insanity. Then I look back at the painting, curiosity overtaking me once more. She is leaning on the balcony, bent forward, head resting on her hands. She looks… adorable. Some instinct in me tells me I should wave to her. I’m surprised when I actually do it, but I’m even more surprised she actually waves again. It’s bizarre, the painting doesn’t move, but it just changes, like someone somewhere is updating it life time.  

 I stare at her. She is beautiful. Even without the details of a realistic painting, this impressionistic image tells me enough. I feel this longing, and it reminds me of Laura again. I had loved her with fear, till she was no longer. Too late. Tears start sliding down my cheeks. I feel out of control. Why is this happening to me? I have to take the painting off the wall; I need to put it somewhere where I can’t see it. Where it can’t have this terrifying effect on me. But once I take the frame in hand, I see flashes of pink, reminding me of my other favorite painting. When the pink light fades, I look around me, and then I see her.