All The Colours

This is my most recent piece of writing. I'll leave it up to you to judge.

The canvas shone with blues and whites and greys. A white dove, its wings outstretched; painted against a stormy sky. An eternal depiction of the cry for love beating its wings against storms of protest. The painter stood back to survey his work. He admored the atmosphere he had succeeded in creating: the calming, tranquil colours juxtaposing the more sinister meaning.

"That's beautiful." said a voice from somewhere behind him. He spun around to see a woman walk into the studio carrying a shrouded canvas under her arm and a paintbox in the other hand. She placed the painting on a wooden stand and turned to face him.
"The colours match," She said.
"And?" the painter replied
"And nothing. They just match"
"They fulfill my purpose better that way."
"Oh... It's in oil colour."
"Erm, yes. Yes, it is.So?" The painter was getting confused. He wondered what the woman was getting to. She looked strange with her clear blue eyes, brown hair, and darkly tanned skin. She wore a loose black top that reached mid-thigh and a pair of paint stained yellow pants. She wore a bracelet from which the cross dangled and a necklace with the word "Allah" on the pendant.
"It is only in oil colour." There seemed to be no purpose to her words. Her tone was blank. There was no question and no exclamation. It was simply a statement.
"You state the obvious," said the painter; wondering if she would be offended.
"I do."

The conversation seemed to be over, yet she made no move to unshroud her canvas and continued to stare at him oddly. Her gaze was blank, but contained oceans of understanding. It wa sas though her thoughts were a million miles away, yet right there with him. It was haunting. She made no move to swich her position or to shift her eyes from his face.
"Umm... you are a painter?" He asked, attempting to break the awkward silence.
"No, I am an artist."
"I'm afraid I cannot tell the difference. I am a painter, therefore I am an artist."
"I don't know if you are an artist. Maybe you are."
"I see," he said, not really seeing at all and not sure he wanted to.
"No, you don't"
Her voice was so toneless, he wondered wether she was amused or angry; then he wondered why he cared. Even her face was devoid of expression, he looked into her too blue eyes and decided that whatever was in their unfathomable expanse was closer to amusement than to anger.
"You have nothing to say," she said when he did not reply.
"Apparently!" He answered, beginning to get irritated.
"I want to see the rest of your work." She said, pretending to be blind to his anger. She took him by surprise, there was no space for disagreement; so the painter made his way to the corner where his work was piled and lined the framed canvases up against the wall. She looked them over: Sunset in a black sky, a ship ina storm, lighning bolts in a stormy sky, and a botanical garden. Some were done in oil paint, some in water colour, and several in pastel.

"Where are you from?" She asked. He wondered at her question. He was blonde, blue eyed, and fair; a typical red-blooded American male.
"Where are you from?" He asked, guessing that she did not really want a reply. He had no idea what she was after, and he wasn't sure that she knew either. The shadow of a smile crossed her face. He had answered correctly.
"Does it matter." It should have been a question, but ti wasn't. His frustration at her cryptic conversation rose to an all time high. Still, he found himself putting a lot of thought into his replies; not only because he was unwilling to upset or offend her, but because he wanted to impress her.
"Should it matter?" He asked, his eyes lingering on her paradoxical accessories. Again she smiled, only this time it was more substantial. He liked it. She ignored the question, as he had guessed she would. She approved of his answer and he was beginning to grasp her meaning.

"I want to see your painting." He said, attempting to copy her flat emotionless tone but failing to conceal his nervous enthusiasm. She smiled. A real smile, glittering white teeth and all. The whiteness of her teeth served to emphasize the darkness of her skin. The painter wondered despite himself where she was from. Mexican? Spanish? Perhaps she was an Arab or maybe she was Turkish. Did it matter? Should it matter?
"Do you really?" She asked, challenging.
"Why would I not?"
"Good answer." She nodded then said, as though speaking to herself  "if there exists no reason for something not to be done, then the something in question should be done."
"Is there a particular reason I would not want to see it?"
"I can hazard a guess but only you would know..."
She was becoming weird again, if weird was the word for the way she was, nut the painter had tuned into her ways and was finding it somewhat easier to unravel her meanings and give her the expected reply.
"Would you tell me your guess?"
"I would never venture to assume what is in one's heart and on one's mind. At least not out loud."
"It would not offend me." the painter said, hoping against hope to know the girl's mind.
"It would offend the rules."
"Whast rules!?" The frustration had returned.
"The rules of the game."
"What game!?" He yelled.
"This.." she said gesturing "Nothing... everything..."
He turned away, choosing to ignore her.
"You think i'm mad." She said
He turned back to find her smiling broadly. He just stared at her.

"I am quite mad," she said with a touch of pride "bordering on insane actually." Her eyes sparkled.
The painter stared at her open mouthed. what did you SAY to that?
"You're mad too, you know"
"I AM..." He began, intending to unleash a storm of protest; when he was interrupted by the mad-bordering-on-insane artist.
"Would you like to see my painting?"

Under normal circumstances he would have sworn at the crazy artist and her  god-forsaken painting, but she was not normal. Therefore, the circumstances stood well beyond the realm of normalcy. He nodded dumbly. She uncovered the canvas and the painter was assailed by clashing colours. Reds and blues and greens and purples and yellowsand whites. A thousand images and a thousand stories, crashing colliding and expressing an anger so intense and so deeo that it was touching and heart-breaking. The images were so ironic and so contradictory that they brought scorn to the eyes of the beholder. The theme was so idelaistic that its expression was amusing. Crazy, the girl was just plain crazy. The prophet Muhammad was in the cave with the angel who told him to read the wordsof the Quran while the Buddha's tears poured down- from a five-point-star spangled sky- on the crucified figure of Jesus, and Shiva looked upon the carnage with a hopeless anger and upon a rising religion with feverish hope. The prophet and the angel were drawn in soft pastel, the Buddha, Shiva, and Jesus were painted in oil. The blood and the tears were done in water colour and all the outlines were emphasized in charcoal.
"You.. wow.. the.." The painter tried to form a coherent sentence and failed.
"Shocking? Blasphemous?"
"I know... How do you feel?"
"Do you enjoy having that effect on people?"
"Vey much so, I do prefer shock though."
"You are... eccentric."
"You have a question?"
"None that i would ask or state out loud."
"It would not offend me." She said.
"It would offend the rules," he replied smiling.
"You use my game against me" She laughed, an odd tinkling sound.
"I do." he replied
"Could you fall inlove with me?" she asked abruptly.
"I could..."
"Would you fall inlove with me?"
"I might."
"Would you do anything about it?"
"I don't understand..."
"Could you marry me?"
"I..." He hesitated. Unwittingly, his eyes travelled to the pendent at her throat and to the painting behind her.
"No, you can't"
"I didn't even answer!"
"You can't..." She smiled and turned away to pack up her belongings.
"Don't bother, I get it. You're mad too... Just not my way. You're mad just like all the rest. That's okay, if you're happy."
"I don't really understand you"
"And you won't. It's alright, noone does. Goodbye sir. "

The woman in an over-sized balck T-shirt and yellow paint stained pants walked out as she had come, with a shrouded painting under her arm and a paintbox in the other hand.

The End

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