Let's Hear the Canvas Too

Let's Hear the Canvas Too

Day 1.

I am a canvas. That’s what they call me. I lie on the counter. Sometimes people touch me. They say I cost two coins.

Day 2.

A cover. A bag. I’ve noticed those things around. That’s what canvas is bought for – things are made from canvas. Well, I have a choice. I don’t want to be a cover. Useful, but boring. And I’d wear out quickly in the rain. A bag – maybe. Several people walked by with canvas bags. One carried vegetables. Another carried books. Easier than carrying them in your hands. But I seem too small for a bag. Not enough fabric. Maybe I’ll get lucky… I don’t want to be a cover.

Day 3.

A wallet! I want to become a wallet. They put coins and valuables in it. It’s like a bag. But I’ve realised it’s also a sign of an important person. The way the vendor flinches when someone pulls out a wallet. Even a small wallet, jingling with coins, makes people sort of straighten up. That role suits me! I wish someone would buy me soon.

Day 4.

Finally, someone bought me! Some guy. He carries me across the market, heading somewhere. On the way I saw another use. A man sat on the road by a car. His hands were covered in black liquid. He wiped them with a piece of canvas. Well… that’s a job, I suppose. But I hope they’ll use me for something more serious.

Day 5.

Yesterday at home he put me in some kind of contraption. Maybe for sewing? I’ll wait. But it’s a bit annoying to stand around doing nothing. Also, he seems poor. Yesterday he argued with someone. He said, “I can’t pay.” And how am I supposed to become a wallet if he has no coins?

Day 6.

He’s crying. He looks at a locket with a photograph. There’s a woman, not young. She hasn’t visited. Maybe she’s gone. Not that it matters to me. I’m still idle. Just standing. Without purpose. I’d rather have stayed at the market.

Day 7.

His friend came over. Brought tubes and brushes. And that fool who bought me started making big strokes. Smearing them on me. A long, wide grey line. Beige squares. A blue rectangle. I don’t understand what he’s doing. But I see no point in it. Now I can’t even be used as a rag!

Day 8.

Today he screamed in his sleep. Called for his mother. Then woke up, drenched in sweat. Jumped up, opened the locket. Sat like that for a while. Threw himself face down into the pillow and cried again.

Then he got up and continued painting. I noticed he was calming down. He stopped flinching at his tears. He just paints. Is my purpose to distract him? Just the process of applying paint? To be honest, I’m glad for even that. Let him be calmer. I would have lasted longer as a wallet. But even so – I’m useful. Good.

Day 9.

He didn’t sleep all night. He keeps picking up the tiny brushes. Picks up barely a drop of paint. And sits for hours, adding dots and thin lines. I recognise this drawing. It looks like what I saw – the city, big buildings, wide streets. An interesting feeling – as if I’m becoming something more than just a canvas. Now I can show a little scene. I can even… tell a story?

But that’s not important. What’s important is that he no longer cries. Sometimes he takes out the locket with the photo, but almost immediately he gets distracted by the painting. I don’t know what I’ll be needed for when he gets bored, and that worries me. Maybe he’ll turn me into a cover. As long as he doesn’t just throw me away.

Day 10.

Early morning. He’s asleep, curled up on the floor. His friend came in. Put a pot with some food on the table. Leaned over to wake him.

And suddenly he looked at me. He straightened up, tilted his head, and began to study me. I was surprised, but suddenly I felt a strange, new sensation. As if I… can speak. Not make sounds, no. But I can show the painting. Catch the light a little. Play with the highlights on the paint. Tell about this city, elegant and majestic. Here’s a square that draws attention with its spaciousness and style. And this building stands out with powerful columns which… wait, where do I know all this from?

He woke up. His friend turned around and said with a wide smile:

“That’s very good. You didn’t stay up for nothing. Bravo! You’re a real artist.”

He gave a weak smile. They continued looking at me together. And I… I was amazed. I wasn’t meant to protect things from the rain, or to carry vegetables. Hell, they didn’t even wipe their hands on me. They just LOOKED at me. They are happy just to be spectators. They want me to tell them this story – of the city, streets, squares and buildings. Was the meaning of it all – in the spectator? In his admiration?

On my 14th day, I was wrapped in paper.

Hands carelessly tore it off, revealing me to the light. I saw a group of men in black suits. I understood this was a showing of the painting to someone important. I straightened up. Slightly turned the ridges of oil paint toward the light. New spectators!

Suddenly one of the men, barely looking at me, snorted and walked to the back of the room. “That’s clear,” he said on the way, addressing one of the group.

The one he addressed was larger. A thick moustache and a gold watch chain in his breast pocket. He kept looking. I think he’s the main one here.

“There is a certain style. Perspective, palette – some skill is present,” said the third man, dry and curt, also addressing the main one.

“It’s just copying,” came from the back of the room. “No living gaze, only calculation and technical skill.”

Everyone fell silent, waiting for the verdict. The main one looked at the painting for another minute.

“Send it back. Refusal.” He said.

What does that mean? Why is the spectator not admiring?

The paper was impatiently folded back; a hand took an envelope from a bag. The Artist stood opposite and read the letter, not looking at me. Then he irritably tossed the paper into the corner of the room and threw a glance at me. I felt something bitter, wrong. Others may not admire me, but why is he looking like that now?

“A second time…” said the Artist out loud. “And what the hell does ‘no living gaze’ mean?!”

He covered me with paper. If I could, I would scream. They are wrong! Show me to others! Don’t cover me, because then no one will see me!!

I am 3 years old.

For 3 years I stood like that, not seeing light. I wanted to tear that paper and crumble paint chips all over the Artist’s floor. Then I was carried somewhere.

“Emma!” I heard a man’s voice.“Let’s pick which one goes to the shop.”

A woman and a man examined me along with the other paintings.

“This one’s good… How much did you buy it for?” asked the woman.

“A bit more than it was worth,” answered the man.

“Samuel…” she looked at him reproachfully.

“He needed the money. He literally skipped away to buy food when I paid him,” the man answered.

“Well, alright, it’s good that we helped him. You’re so kind-hearted,” the woman softened.

I liked this conversation. The woman has taste. And the man paid more – so I must be worth something!

“Let it stand in the shop window. We won’t sell it. It will attract attention…” said the man. They will show me to spectators!

I am 6, and it didn’t turn out as I expected.

Most of the time, customers come in without even noticing me: “Show me Art Nouveau frames. No, I need something more ornate – it would be shameful to put a family photo in that,” or “Morgenstern & Co.? Do you restore museum frames?” Just imagine: my Artist created a work of art that they use to attract customers for frames!

But sometimes someone stops for a moment and looks. And even more rarely, they might say something like “Not a bad painting!” For moments like that, I turn myself slightly toward the light. Maybe one day there will be a spectator who can truly appreciate the story I have to tell. The main thing is that I don’t fade away completely from this dreary neglect. I must wait.

I am 26, and I have not waited in vain for more than twenty years!

The painting has faded, of course, and the frame is worn – but I hold myself with dignity, as befits my age and, if I may, my status. After all, my Artist has become famous. I think I need not trouble myself with details; you know him anyway.

A few days ago, the shop Owner brought in several of his acquaintances. They had sometimes come in individually before, but this was the first time they all arrived together. I knew they came to talk about something, never paying any attention to me, so I didn’t bother trying to look presentable. But things turned out differently.

Together with the Owner, they literally rushed to me. They crowded in front of me and began to look greedily.

“The very painting. Would you believe it – about 20 years ago I bought it for next to nothing!” the Owner told them.

“A wonderful investment,” echoed the guests.

Have they suddenly developed taste? Why have they suddenly noticed me, after all these years? But strangely, they mostly seem to look at the lower right corner.

“And his signature is so well preserved,” said one of the men.

“You had no idea you were buying a painting with SUCH a name, did you, Samuel?” laughed a woman.

“No, I admit, I bought the painting from a practically unknown author,” answered the Owner. “Of course, certain circumstances… Still, art should be above that, don’t you think, gentlemen?”

My Artist… became famous? That was stronger than the first praise 29 years ago. I felt like rushing toward the light, casting highlights across the brushstrokes, shining, even becoming larger than the frame! So all this time, I wasn’t wrong to feel that I had a story to tell. I truly am The Very Painting!

I am 30.

I wish I could crash to the floor with a bang, attract attention – but there’s no one in the shop. The windows are carelessly boarded up with ugly planks. Broken glass and shattered wooden frames lie everywhere.

It all started with an envelope and a note, which the Owner received. He stared at it for a while, dumbfounded, without opening it. Then he fell onto a chair and covered his face with his hands. A few minutes later, he glanced at the note and slammed his fist on the table in rage. A woman ran in.

“He didn’t even open the letter,” said the Owner dejectedly.

“What about the painting? Surely they need it! Surely they wouldn’t…”

“There’s a note here. It says the question of confiscation of the painting will be considered separately.” They fell silent, looking at each other. Their dialogue was not clear to me.

They fussed about, packing up late in the evening. They took almost nothing with them. The wife seemed to be crying. They paid no attention to me. There was one moment, though. As he was running out of the shop with his belongings, the Owner threw a glance at me. Oh, what a glance that was… I had never received such a look before. I had seen eyes looking through me without interest, eyes of approval, the curiosity of a child. But this… His face was frightened, confused. When he glanced at me, I felt… hatred?

And at night, some people broke into the shop. They smashed the windows, broke the furniture. Somehow I survived. I think the Owner knew this would happen. But how could he abandon a painting by a famous Artist?!

I would give even my frame, just for someone to come in and look at me. Even a child, even without understanding anything. I would tell this painting’s story so vividly. But it seems it’s time to give up all hope. This is where it will all end.

I am 31. And this is a special day.

For more than a year I stood in the empty shop. I stopped seeing because of the thick layer of dust. But one day the familiar dead silence was pierced by the crack of a blow against wood. Then another, and a wooden board from the window crashed to the floor. Footsteps echoed, growing louder. The voices of two men were heard. Through the dust I caught the first ray of light from a lantern in a long time.

Dust was wiped from me in the lower right corner.

“Found it!” shouted a man’s voice with elation. A sharp, almost painful hope stirred in me.

“Finally. The very one,” answered the other man. Yes! It’s me, the very painting! They will save me, take me away!

I am driven for a long time. It’s dark, still very dusty; the fabric I’m wrapped in smells slightly of motor oil. But these are temporary hardships, because the main thing is – they found me! I wonder what now? Will I stand in a rich house? Or perhaps it’s time for a museum? Because I am – the Very Painting!

I heard a third voice, and it seemed vaguely familiar. The fabric fell away; a palm wiped the dust. I saw the face of a man approaching me. It’s… it can’t be, it’s the Artist!! How he has matured, how distinguished he looks! That expensive coat, the slight grey at his temples. A somewhat tired gaze, still looking from under his brows, but the same spark remains – of defiance, of a challenge to the whole world. This is a new look – the look of the Great Artist! So my new chapter of life will begin. Hurry, will you take me to a gallery? Of course not – first restoration, yes, that’s right…

Epilogue

The Artist looked at the painting. "I remember this one very well", he thought. For a moment he allowed himself to sink into memories. Then he straightened up and said briefly:

“Burn it.”

He looked at the fire, arms crossed over his chest. His frowning eyes glinted from the flashes of flame devouring dozens of his paintings. It seemed that in the fire he saw not a burning past, but a bright future. Suddenly he thought that one of the paintings was waving to him. From the fire, like the hand of a drowning man, a corner of a painting stretched and swayed, as if begging for help. He looked closer and made out the letters:

“A. Hitler. Vienna, 1908.”

For a fraction of a second he felt doubt. “Keep it? No”. He gave a slight jerk of his head. “Public knowledge of the failures of youth must be kept under political control”.