She sits on a stool in the middle of her room. It isn't a big place, and what little space she has is crammed with objects. Against one wall rests a beaten-up leather sofa, which seems to have been dragged into her room from the dumpster. Aside from a single cushion, it is layered with clothes, books, and a few dirty dishes. In another corner of the room is her entertainment system, the television rotated to face the single cushion of her sofa without clothes on it. The top of the TV is littered with small plastic toys and unusually shaped rocks. Against another wall sags an ancient and poorly crafted bookshelf. Its shelves are laden with trash: broken rebar rods, piles of old National Geographics, plastic bags shoved inside of more plastic bags. It's unclear what she's doing with these things.
Perhaps she plans to use them for art. Before her is an easel, and on the easel is a canvas with several strokes of paint. She holds a palette in her right hand, and a paint brush in her left. The tip of the paintbrush is poised in midair. She holds this position for thirty seconds, and then a minute. In the background, Morrissey sings about what's in his mind. On the tip of the brush is a glob of vibrant blue paint, which contrasts sharply with the darker oranges and browns on the canvas. Maybe she's planning a coastal scene?
Another minute passes, and she still doesn't move. Of course, she breathes, and her shoulders slowly rise and fall. But that's it. Her canvas remains unchanged. It is almost as though she herself is the painting, or perhaps she's posing for another artist's work. Certainly, she would make an interesting subject, though from this angle we can't see her face. The only hint we get is her left ear, from which dangles a slender earring made of dark, glossy beads. We also see her hair, which is mangled and asymmetrical and obviously cut by herself. Although its naturally ginger, strands have been dyed black. They're clumped together rigidly, and it looks as though she used spray-paint to dye them.
Morrissey's song comes to an end, and slowly she returns to life. First a little twitch of the shoulder, then a slight nod of the head. Finally, her left arm starts moving, and she waves the paintbrush in front of the canvas, nearly touches it a few places. It never actually connects, though. No blue is left on the painting. She pauses again, and then shaking her head, she deliberately wipes the paint off of her brush. After being frozen for so long, it's good to see her moving with such decisiveness.
This time, she dabs her brush in the reds and violets of her palette, mixing together a new color. When she's done, the tip of her brush is like the ember of a burning cigarette. It is a color that will go well with her painting. After a moment, she moves the brush towards the canvas, but once again she doesn't touch it. She seems unable to find the right spot to start. This is obviously very hard for her.
Eventually, she groans and moves her brush back to the palette. This time she mixes black with a deeper shade of red. The color she produces could be the crimson of a setting sun or the blood flowing out of an open vein. When she's done, she throws the palette onto her couch, as though she wants to get it away from herself. Maybe this is best. She is now committed to a single color, and other possibilities will not distract her. Meanwhile, the palette settles at an angle, and the blue and brown paint slowly roll onto a tank-top.
Time passes. Her shoulders are tense in concentration, but still she doesn't move. Even so, something about her posture is different this time, and we hold our breath because it seems like she really is about to make art. Perhaps she will paint the red, desolate mesas of the southwest or the lips of grim-faced man. When she finally does move, though, it is not to the canvas. Her left hand swings over to her right, as though her brush is seeking the palette again. Of course, the palette isn't there anymore. It's on the couch now. Instead, the brush lands on her wrist, leaving a trail of crimson. The paint glistens in the fluorescent light. As if responding to her will, Morrissey's music grows darker and more insistent. She makes another stroke, this time heavier and slower. She's applying a lot of pressure, and the hairs of the brush splay across her skin.
When she's done, she holds her wrist up to examine her handiwork. Of course, this isn't a real cut and that isn't real blood. It's just make-believe. Probably every painter has done this at some point. For now, though, she pretends like it's real. She slides to the open cushion of her couch and spreads her arms wide. Her left arm hangs limply over the edge of the sofa. Her right hand touches the still-wet palette. This aggravates her, and she grabs the palette and slams it against the canvas. It slowly slides down. Leaning back once more, she closes her eyes and pretends to fall into a long, deep sleep. Morrissey continues to sing in the background, but the CD is coming to an end. Soon it will stop producing music and spin quietly in its tray until all sound dies.
She doesn't move. The only movement is the palette.
It slides past the bottom of the canvas and then clatters to the floor below.
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