Week 11: The Portrait

by Nicola
(South Australia)

A wedding portrait. Of all things, how could she possibly paint a wedding portrait? Yeah, it was a nice thought, something special for the happy couple, but hadn't either of them ever looked at her portraits? Well the groom had of course, but they were all people he knew, family, friends, people she liked. She had never shown him portraits of people she didn't like. She never showed anyone. Those paintings were under lock and key, never to see the light of day.

People always marvelled at the likeness to the subject, which is why she had been very strict about accepting commissions. Likeness, for her, wasn't just physical. Her secret was in showing the inner soul of her subject and bringing it out. If she didn't like her subject, it showed. Somehow, there were always shadows, hints of the inner person. She couldn't help it. The lips would become slightly cruel, the eyes, cold and the tonal structure, very different.

So how could she paint a happy picture of the bride and groom? The groom she could do by heart, he had modelled for her for most of his life. The bride on the other hand, was a two faced, manipulative bitch. The groom was besotted with the bride; the artist wasn't.

Despite her misgivings, knew that for his sake, she should stamp on her feelings of negativity and give it a try. She looked at the bare canvas before her, then stared at the photograph he had provided. Her husband walked in, "C'mon love. It's too late to start painting now. How about we snuggle down on the sofa and share a hot chocolate?" She smiled. That was just what she needed.

"I'm going up to Mel's shack for a few days. I need to get away to do this one." She looked sorrowfully at her husband. "I know love. But don't stay too long. I'll miss you. I can't even call you, with that damn old disconnected phone she insists on keeping there."

"That's 'cause it's our getaway place. I promise to take my mobile this time." She smiled and pecked him on the cheek. "I promise."

Two days later, the likeness of the bride stared back at her. But it was empty, vacant. It lacked the depth she was always able to portray. She knew he wouldn't accept it. She could hear the bride's mocking voice in her head, telling her again how she was no good and that she ought to give up.

"You have to give her a happy glow, girl. Make her look soft and in love." She snorted to herself. "I need a good, stiff drink to do this one." She walked to the bar and poured herself a double rum. Stuff the ice. Throwing it back, she poured herself another. "It's just not going to happen is it?" she reflected. "Well, there's only one thing for it. Paint you as you are you little bitch! If I get you out of my system, maybe I can repaint you the way you want to be painted."

With that she proceeded to change her palette. Gone were the warm golden tones, replaced with black, red and white. "Ok you little Japanese miss. Time for you to go geisha."

She moved to her computer, downloaded and printed photos of geisha girls and picked the look she wanted. Soon, the face on the canvas was transformed. But her subject looked pretty and fragile. She didn't want that. She was pretty, but she certainly wasn't fragile. Megan helped herself to another double rum and stood back to view her work. "Miss two face." She giggled and proceeded to mix new colours. With a few quick brush strokes, the edges of her white pancake make-up were peeled back, a painted mask, curling at the edges, held in place by stitches. "So now you are Frankenstein's geisha." The skin beneath the mask was too human. She pulled out a biology text book, and quickly flicked to muscle structure. "Yes! There it is!" She laughed, and painted a big tear through the white face. Make up and skin beneath the tear was quickly replaced, with muscles, tendons and yellowed bone. A lone eyeball stared out from a hollow black eye socket, with little white maggots pouring fourth, devouring her half rotting corpse face. Half a pretty smile, half yellowed teeth in fleshless gums. Death mask. Darkness, half face.

She stepped back to survey her work. Tomorrow, when it dried, she would paint a light hint of a veil. The two faced bride of death, for that was what she was. Maybe some puppet strings, with the head of the groom on the dancing puppet at the bride's feet? She laughed drunkenly.

Over several days the painting consumed her, each day the bride metamorphosed into something darker, and the painting gradually appeared to develop a life of its own.
It became the best painting she had ever done, with the subject seemingly ready to leap out of the canvas, ready to consume the viewer. Behind the bride's eyes, lay a deep fiery glow; Look into them, and the spell was cast. There was a sense of wanton evil about the whole thing.

All thought of painting the portrait as requested had disappeared, so immersed was the artist in the dark soul of her subject. It bore no physical resemblance to the bride anymore, the only clue that the creature was a bride, lay in the tattered remnants of veil held against a yellowed skull, by encrusted patches of blood.

There was nothing more she could do. The result was the likeness she saw in her heart. Her musings were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Mel.

"Hey chook! How ya doin'? How'd your son's wedding go?"
No answer was required as Mel stared in shock at the painting.

"Oh my god. That's your daughter-in-law!"