Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang: Volume 1, Chapter 3
- Aug 17
- 5 min read
Admittedly, neither Desiree nor Leighann had been inside the nearby gas station recently, and the doe-eyed clerk in the formerly wet man’s portrait could have been from any store, anywhere. The landscape, however, of the butterweed field behind the subdivision, and the lone lightning-struck tree that served as its distinguishing landmark, verified the wet man’s story. Both paintings’ beauty verified his skill. And within a few minutes of gazing at two-thirds of the three-piece set, Leighann convinced Desiree to indulge her vanity. The fabulous living room of their mother-daughter vision was the obvious subject for what was clearly a very impressive and talented master artist. Desiree became so comfortable that she pulled off her socks, seated in a dining chair beside her mother.
“How high did you crank the heat?”
“He was caught with practically nothing on,” said Leighann.
The old artist unfurled the towel on the ground like a drop cloth for his easel. Desiree lifted the landscape for another look. It, like the portrait of the clerk, shined with an inner luminosity. As if there were layers of reflective surface hidden beneath the colors, not unlike the reflective snow on the ground, that bounced light back to the painting’s finish, through the colors like stained glass, causing the subjects to glow from within and the butterweed to look electrified by the lightning strike that had once split the lone tree. The canvas was, as the artist had said, punctured in the middle by a likely rock, which did not shatter this effect.
“Neither of us consulted a designer on any of it,” said Leighann.
“I picked the color,” said Desiree, returning the landscape to the artist’s pack.
“It took a lot of convincing. I wasn’t sold on the mustard.”
“I painted the walls by myself; I told her we’d do whatever color she wanted if she didn’t like it.”
“But I came home from work after she finished and I saw it and I immediately thought: blue.” Leighann looked to the artist as he meditated on the alley of the living room. “I’m sure that has to happen to you all the time: you see a color and bam! you know exactly what would look good with it.”
The artist held his brush in an awkward three-fingered grip.
“Yes, I see it.”
“I picked out the couches,” said Leighann. “I thought the butterscotch was a particularly bold choice.”
“It was my turn to try and talk her out of that one,” said Desiree.
“I’ve been collecting the crystal figures for over a decade now.”
The artist began to nod.
“Yes. That’s where the interest is. That wall, it was beige when you moved in?”
Desiree confirmed the artist’s suspicion.
“Yes, I see beige in the wall.” He dabbed a brush in oil and narrated the strokes. “But long before that was its first foundation. That’s what I need most. Many, many layers before beige. It started out gray, did you know that? A bland, smooth, dry, even gray. And then from gray, it became white. Wide brushstrokes, little care; such reckless brushing is exposed by the light from the snow. See it here? Then in this direction here? For its first color, a light green. Only a moment as light green because like a chameleon shifting shades it was painted over in a brighter green. Mint to lime and then with some blue on the next layer and the wall became this sea green. These were satisfied brushstrokes. But then it became white again. The mint, the lime, the sea, all covered by one coat of white. A second coat of white. Okay. Our next layer, if your yellow wall is examined closely, was a delicate, soft, airy sky blue. Warm and inviting. Oh, yes, and there’s a layer of images, did you know that? Detailed by a woman. An amateur painter. An enthusiastic novice. She painted vines on the wall. Vines with cucumbers. I detect an ode to a grandparent. Very charming. But then another layer of white. One more coat of white and here’s the beige you remember. Remember it, when you moved in, just like this? Then two layers of white, and one final mix of yellow and brown.” And after flourishing so many layers onto his canvas, the artist revealed a perfectly matching mustard yellow.
“Finished.”
There was no rug, no window, no decorative mustard-colored rotary phone, no blue ladder-shelf, no gold plate on a real wood coffee table, no furniture of any kind in the interior portrait. Only a canvas the same mustard color as the wall.
“You see it, right? Specifically, here.”
The wandering artist walked past the furnishings and fixtures to the far wall. He held the painting against it and the painting fit like an optical illusion, a magician’s trick. Not only was the color seamless, but the brushstrokes too, they carried off the canvas; it even had a matching scuff. Looking straight ahead, the painting was a perfect camouflage.
“Is this a prank?” said Leighann in confusion.
Desiree stood up in reproach.
“No, I get it,” she said, “It’s an insult. It’s some kind of statement against all of our stuff. He thinks we’re superficial. Less interesting than the layers of paint on a wall. The illustrious homeless artist is mocking our taste.”
Leighann seemed to be talking to herself as she reevaluated her living room decisions. “I mean, it seems more superficial, and also pretty snobby to me to judge someone for how they decorate their home after they’ve brought you in from the cold.” She turned directly to the artist and added “patronizing ass” for good measure.
But the artist’s head was down, deflated, fixed humbly on Desiree’s bare feet as he said, “I could never insult you.”
Outside, the snow had stopped. The man packed up the painting and thanked daughter and mother for their kindness. With the weather calm and the set complete, it was time to get moving again.
“No name? No famous signature?” said Desiree.
She followed him to the backdoor. Above, past the blue sky, the constellations aligned to their usual zodiac places like a lock reset. A sparkling wind blew across the lawn—the man waved three fluttering fingers—and when the snow settled the man was gone.
There were no footprints left behind. And if there had been an opportunity to study such a phenomenon, from the strange pattern of stars above to their bizarre effects on the weather below, it may have been discovered that the wandering artist had departed as a billion of the same kind of snowflake.
Next week on Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang, Desiree is caught in a scandalous transaction. Is it a case of mistaken identity? Or, like the layers of paint on the wall, are there more secrets to be found in the house? Find out August 24th.
Author: Zachary Ryan
Zachary Ryan is just a guy who is excited to entertain you for a few short minutes.
