Cursed Bendy Blues
Do they even know what irises mean?
I pick my paint brush up, with a deep inhale this time.
This shouldn’t be hard. I just need to get more blue. How did I waste so much blue on one-third of a painting?
These irises, I swear to god. They just go on and on and on, and suddenly, all of my blue is gone. They are not the easiest flower to paint. So many curves and loops and twists and curls. Each one must be as detailed as possible. Well, as detailed as the ones in this painting, at least.
The news dropped yesterday that these damned irises went missing. Just like that, vanished. They said they had it “moved” for “restoration”, but everyone knows that was code for stolen.
Yes, what a tragedy, I’m thoroughly devastated — but I got to work almost immediately. Who knows when those mind-numbing purple loops might turn up again.
Interestingly enough, these cursed bendy blues are supposed to symbolize hope, courage, and admiration. I get the hope and courage, I really do. I do hope this would pay my student debt. Art school was not cheap. Also, it does take some courage to do. Admiration, on the other hand, I’m not sure.
I’m not saying I don’t admire this painting. It’s beautiful, it really is. The contrast of the colors, the vividness, the impossible details, require no less than a genius to craft. Those things I admire.
I don’t admire the million-dollar price tag on it, though. It is, by every conceivable way, worth that much — and maybe even more. But the idea of purchasing something so priceless is beyond me. That makes it no more than rich people plaything.
With each step I take to get the blue paint tube, I imagine who the future owner of the original painting would be. Are they local? Do they know who the painter is? Who do they think they are, lavishly throwing money away to own a classic painting? A stolen one, at that? Of course, they can buy whatever they find pleasing to their eyes, but would they pay attention? Would they recognize the brilliant choices of colors? Would they notice the unique intricacies of each curved petal? Do they even know what irises mean?
I walk back to the easel with a race in my head. I squeeze out the blue paint and get to work.
I didn’t even realize when it was done.
There it stands, in its grandeur, a weeping contrast to my dingy apartment. On the floor, I sit with a gnawing pang inside of me. Each one of those crooked, ethereal florets calling me, demanding me to protect them. If I give them away, there is no way to make sure that they are safe. Will the lucky one — whose wall would be graced by their presence — take care of them, treasuring each and every loop?
But here, they’re safe here. They’re safe here with me.
I put my paintbrush down, with a long exhale this time.
Nirinda Niatiansya is a writer from Jakarta, Indonesia. If you enjoyed this story, you can find other writings by Nirinda here.
