THE PAINTING

On the first day of the second quarter Tara sat at her usual seat in the studio.  The aisle seat, second row from the back.  She had thick dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail with bangs framing her olive-toned skin.  She was pretty, but she hid her face behind the large canvas propped in front of her.

The first quarter of art school was dreadfully boring compared to Tara’s expectations.  Her parents weren’t supporting her as much as they would have if she had gone to a “real university,” and working the night shift at the local café had erased the initial rebellious excitement.  She had devoted her entire summer to forgetting the stupid prep high school she had gone to and imagining the new life she was beginning.  Independent.  She could make it her own.  She had pictured finally finding a group of people like her.  People who would stay late in the studio just to make art.  People who she could call up anytime just to hang out.  People who would actually take the time to get to know her.

Instead she found that most of the people in her classes worked a job that took up all their spare time, and the people in her residence hall had either known each other before, or had somehow formed their own groups in the two hours she was late to orientation.  Still, she tried to fit in.  She wasn’t rude, she held her judgment.  There was no reason for everyone to avoid her.  But it just happened.

So Tara had grudgingly called Beth, an old friend, a few times to chat and walk around downtown.  Beth and Tara had met in a ballet class when they were five years old, and had been close friends throughout childhood, even though Tara had quit ballet after a few years.  High school was difficult for both of them.  Tara was alienated by most of the school’s population, and Beth was so focused on dancing that she hardly allowed time for anything else, school work included.  Beth was now a professional dancer.  All her preppy high school friends were so jealous when she began getting calls from colleges practically begging her to attend their university.  But the city lights, the fame, the money, had called to Beth and she had enrolled in a professional ballet company.

In addition to the lack of friends, Tara wasn’t enjoying her classes that much either.  She had no respect for her scrawny teacher, who spent the entire first quarter teaching them the art of still life and human models, as if they were toddlers who had just learned to pick up a crayon.  Even the models were nothing to look at, and come on, that’s supposed to be the most exciting part of art school – at least for the students who didn’t put their all into their work.

To start off the new quarter Mrs. Philips said they would be applying the skills they learned of properly sketching the human figure to create art with a concept.  This class: Conceptual Art I was paired with the mandatory Art History: the Church’s Perspective.  In an attempt to connect these two classes, Mrs. Philips’ first assignment was to paint a religious scene with at least one prominent human figure.

Tara was annoyed. Religion. Really?  Tara hadn’t given much thought to religion since the fifth grade when her mom had stopped forcing her to go to church.  But Tara suddenly had a vivid image of what she wanted to paint: Christ’s death scene on the cross.  As soon as she thought of it, she knew it was the right thing.  Christ was alone, weak, vulnerable, yet making the ultimate sacrifice.  Tara always believed that sacrifice was necessary.  You can’t get something for nothing, you have to deserve it.

Tara painted boldly, referencing a few paintings of Christ, but creating a new interpretation of the scene, adding details to the landscaping and background.  Tara wanted it to be unique; she wanted it to be a painting that could be felt not just seen.  Everyday she diligently sat with her canvas, squirting, mixing, and brushing the colors.   Having too much work was becoming a legitimate excuse to brush off her family and Beth (who was becoming more irritating as the Nutcracker season progressed).  Tara had never considered herself a perfectionist before – she had quit ballet because she didn’t have the patience – but she needed Jesus to be real in this painting.  He had to come alive on the canvas.  In the moment of his death there needed to be life.

At last the quarter was coming to a close.  Tara was only days away from finishing the painting, and she had even bought a ticket to the Nutcracker to humor Beth.  She was aggravated though.  She had not found the proper color for Jesus’ blood.  She had wasted a good night’s worth of pay on red acrylic paint, but no brand or combination would satisfy. 

On Saturday evening Tara made her way over to the theater district by herself.  She didn’t feel like she had anyone to ask to come with her, and besides she wanted to see Beth alone.  She came straight from class, so she was bumbling around awkwardly carrying her canvas wrapped in a cloth.  She didn’t want to let her masterpiece out of her hands.

The theater was fancy but not over-the-top.  Tara found her seat and stowed the canvas between the two armrests, gently placing her bag against her side.  Seated on Tara’s left was a middle-aged woman with short, curled blonde hair, clusters of diamonds in her ears and a giant ruby ring on her finger.  You could imagine her after the show with a martini in her hand, talking it up and laughing.  It would be a loud, annoying, shrieking laugh.  On Tara’s right was a girl who looked about the same age as her.  Her cheeks were flushed as she took off her thick pea coat, scarf, and gloves.  It was a mild December day.  She was one of those girls who wore layers and heavy jackets just because it was the winter season.  When she turned to put her clutch next to herself, Tara could have smiled but she looked away and faceted her eyes on the stage’s curtain.  It was a nice red velvet curtain.  Red.  Red.

“Excuse me,” Tara said to the girl’s hair.  The girl turned around and smiled, as if surprised that Tara had changed her mind and wanted to speak to her now.  “Would you call that curtain blood red?”

The girl frowned as if now regretting that she was even sitting next to Tara.  “Oh.  Well, I’d say it’s more of a maroon.”

“Hmph,” Tara huffed as she righted herself in her seat again and stared straight ahead.

The director came out to welcome the audience but Tara wasn’t listening.  She needed to find red.  Blood red.

The maroon curtain opened.  The dancers danced.  There were no major mistakes.  The Nutcracker was over.  Tara had recognized Beth, she supposed she had danced well.  Tara was too distracted by her painting to really care.

Tara waited impatiently in front of the theater where she and Beth had agreed to meet for dessert afterwards.  Finally Beth’s skinny torso waded through the crowd.  On stage, Beth could have been mistaken for beautiful.  In reality, Beth’s pinched face plastered in makeup made her look like an ugly doll.  In fact, Tara could see now, it looked as though the sole purpose of her entire person was to play dress-up.  Her flat body was just a hanger for the costumes which tried to hide her shallowness.

“Hey!  You ready?  What’d you think?”  Beth asked brightly.

“Oh.  Yeah.  You were good.  I mean, you know I haven’t danced in years, so I don’t really know.”  As they passed a streetlight it illuminated Beth.  Her fake eyelashes cast shadows down her cheeks.  But her lips were dark and full of color.

Tara stopped in her tracks and stared intensely at Beth’s lips.  “What kind of lipstick are you wearing?”

“Uh… I’m not sure.  Why?”

It was almost the right color.  She was getting closer.  The search for finding the best color for Jesus’ blood was consuming her thoughts.  “What?  Oh.  Never mind.”

They arrived at the late-night café and stepped up to the counter.  Beth ordered a tea.  Behind the glass, Tara saw a slice of cherry pie.  Its filling called out to her.  It was a shiny, gooey red that Tara needed.  Bloody, almost.  She knew it wasn’t perfect, a shade off, but it had more life to give to the painting than any of the paints in her studio.

“A latte and that slice of cherry pie,” Tara ordered and pointed. 

“Would you like to try any of our special holiday lattes?” the plain-looking man behind the counter asked.

“Just the slice right there.”  Tara squeezed between two customers blocking the counter and bent down pointing at the pie that she wanted.  After a few tries he brought up the slice she craved.  Tara stepped aside and dug in her purse to find something to contain the pie filling and grabbed a knife from the café’s silverware to scoop it out. 

The two young women sat together forcing awkward small talk.  Tara hadn’t eaten any of the cherry pie yet because she was still unsure of how to bring it home.  The only container of any kind she had in her purse was an empty contacts lens case.  It couldn’t hold enough of the jelly filling to be useful.  All attempts at conversation had ceased due to Tara’s puzzling.  Beth picked at a hangnail and began to dig around in her bag.

“Shit,” Beth said looking up from her bag.  “I left my phone backstage.  I have to get it before the theater is locked up.  Walk me back, please?”

Tara accepted and the pair left the café.  As Tara held the door for Beth she saw the sign posting their business hours which read that they were closed tomorrow, Sunday.  She couldn’t wait that long, she needed to make progress.

It was drizzling when they stepped outside causing every light and reflective surface to shimmer in Tara’s eyes.

“I know a shortcut that gets us right behind the theater.  I never use it ‘cause it kind of freaks me out, but we have to hurry, the place is locked at twelve.”

Tara knew she should stick by her friend but she was tired of carrying the burden of her large canvas around with her.  And she was more distraught than ever about the paint for Jesus’ blood now knowing that she couldn’t go back to the café.

            “What time is it?” Beth asked.

When Tara reached in her purse to open her cell phone to reply, “11:55,” she realized that she still had the knife with her.  She had mistakenly grabbed a steak knife instead of a butter knife.

 “We’re not going to get there in time.”  Beth sped up and continued the attack on her hangnail.  “Ah! Damn it!”

Beth’s hangnail had ripped off and a fat drop of blood was forming on her thumb.  Tara looked at the injury with a critical eye.  That was red.  That was blood red.  Beth had life in her to sacrifice.

 “Oh, you’re fine.  There’s lots more where that came from.”

“No I’m not fine! Geez that hurts.  I need my phone!”

“Oh come on, we all have to sacrifice, Beth.”

And in that moment Tara knew she needed Beth’s blood.  It would paint her picture.  But was it deserved?  They say dancers sacrifice their bodies for their art, and Tara wasn’t going to question that now.  Tara deserved the blood, she had poured so much time and effort into her painting and now she was finally getting the true color.  And Jesus deserved it.  Beth was just… returning the favor.  After all, Tara decided, this was a painting.  It would just be paint going on canvas.

As Beth nursed her thumb Tara silently gripped the knife.    The sharp, serrated, silver edge glinted in the streetlamp’s light.  Tara reached up and plunged down hard.  Beth screamed.  Yes, this was the life that Jesus had given.  Tara stabbed – she had to get to the paint.  Beth crippled.  Yes, this would make the painting come to life.  Tara blindly sliced and found that pure color of blood red.  Beth fell flat and lay still.  Red paint pooled around her body.  Tara watched her paint flow into a sidewalk crack and stream past her.  Yes, this was real, and this was felt.

Tara took a deep breath.  Her dry paintbrush readily soaked up the paint.  Its color remained true.  She gently touched the tip to her canvas and the paint seemed to seep into every pore of it.  Jesus’ blood flowed out of his sacrificed body.  She exhaled.  It was perfect.