literature

The Art Collector

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Literature Text

If one was to wander the path headed north for what seems like endlessly in the Woods they would come across a most peculiar sight. A mansion standing tall and proud and slightly dilapidated. Most who have ever seen the mansion turn around immediately claiming that witches, cannibals, and goblins must live deep within the darkness of the vacated halls. Yet a brave few choose to stay for a while longer, feeling the beckoning call of something unexplained. The brave stand to take in the glory of this worn down heaven. Vines creep along side the walls and twist around columns blooming honey suckle and bleeding hearts. The mansion stood two stories high with windows full of broken and jagged pieces of multicolored glass. The building was made from great thick stone; most were pale yellow like the shifting sun through a canopy of trees. A select amount of stones happened to be colored blue as the sky. Unfortunately in some places the stone was completely worn away revealing the decimated interior. The front doors lie haphazardly hanging on their hinges. Made of thick oak and intricately carved in the shapes of koi fish swimming through rising waves. Past those doors laid the leaf and dirt covered hallways immersed in shadow. Blank canvases sprayed with earth and water lined the walls, tilting at odd angles. Sunlight shafted in through the collapsed roof sheading light on fallen bricks and shattered jars of what appeared to be paint. Vines hung down through the halls giving shelter to the stone floor below. As the brave travel further and further into the heart of the mansion they noticed that it seemed to grow brighter and less damaged except for the obvious missing patches of roof. Soon they reached a marbled set of doors. Like the grand oak doors of the front it was intricately carved. This time it was depicting a ring of girls dancing in the woods, wreaths of daisies woven into their hair. Only the lionhearted had the strength to open those doors. The room hidden away inside was in perfect condition. Not even a speck of dust had the indecency to land on this place of wonder. One might first notice the many paintings hung around the room. All placed in silver frames in various sizes they covered every inch of wall. Paintings, sketches, ink it was all there. Or perhaps the eye might catch the multicolored glow of the stained glass dome that formed the roof. Not a piece broken or even scratched. It bathed the room in an unearthly light that made it all more beautiful. Crimson, gold, sky blue, violet, and forest green covered the room in patchwork. Yet eyes might’ve drifted to the statues and other ceramics poised on podiums and lining the walls of the room. Statues dating back to ancient Greece made of cold marble and vases decorated with flecks of gold. Perhaps eyes might forgo noticing the splendor of the artwork in favor of the young girl standing in the center of the room. Dressed in a simple white sundress with daisies wound through her blonde hair. Long legs stretched to meet the ground with bare feet. Arms hung loosely at her sides. Her hair stretched to the middle of her back, tangled and free. She simply stood and gazed at the wall of art. When she turned to face the pair of eyes surveying her one almost always held their breath. She had a soft face with full lips and round green eyes. A small nose and slightly dimpled chin completed her soft look. In the right light one could notice the start of her cheeks contouring as she lost the remains of baby fat that still clung to her youthful face. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She met those staring eyes with a profound boldness. Lips rising into a welcoming smile, eyes lighting up in joy at meeting someone new. One would struggle to find the breath in their lungs to say even a word. Not that it’s necessary for them to be the first speaker. By then the girl has already spit  words out. “Hello, I’m…. I’m…” She takes a moment to glance to the sidewall; you can’t quite catch what at. “I’m Alice! What brings you to the Gallery?” There is only one answer to that question. “Curiosity” Her smile brightens considerably more. “ Oh how wonderful! You must stay and add to the gallery!” The lionhearted turn questioning. How could one add to the beauty created by the highly skilled? The girl reaches for the brave’s hand and surprisingly they don’t refuse. She takes them across the room swaying slightly with each step. She is a willow tree waving in the breeze, so graceful and poised. She should have been a ballerina. They are led back through the hallway until Alice finds the nearest blank canvas. She grabs it off the wall and turns on toe point floating back to the Gallery. Along the way she grabs cracked jars of paint. A blue one hidden amongst hanging vines, a red one carelessly perched on a stone jutting forward, a yellow one crouching in the shadows. Before they know paintings have surrounded them and multicolored light shines down. Alice sits the brave on an empty pedestal. “ Stay as still as you would like. Strike a pose do something memorable.” Those are the only instructions they receive. Seconds pass. Minutes ticking by on an invisible clock. Its years and years of staying still. Turning into stone and become part of this place. A voice pierces the bleakness. “I’m done! Come see what will be your mark!” They stand and walk over to the girl with the canvas. Footsteps echoing in the dark of the light. Paints have swirled together in impossible ways. It is a raging sea during a storm. It is an eagle soaring the heavens. It is a maiden tangled in thorns, blood seeping from her many wounds. They are always baffled. “ This isn’t me….. how did you even do this?” Alice simply smiles. “I didn’t do this. You did. This is your mark on the world. This is you.” The lionhearted turn mice hearted. This is something not meant to be understood when someone needs to understand. The brave leave the Gallery. Some bidding the girl a farewell, some just run and never turn back. In the end the girl ends up all alone. She’ll sigh and hang the painting upon the wall. Upon the hundreds of others already existing. Words twist themselves upon the canvas in black ink. It’s a name. The artist. The girl lets another sigh escape turning to stare at her own place in the Gallery. What the brave don’t see is that they leave a piece of their soul here. The painting or drawing or ink or sculpture is the impression of their soul. Some are big and some are small. But all are important, at least to the girl they are. She can’t remember when she started collecting the art of one’s soul. Maybe it was when her own soul was entangled with that of creativity. She wanted to preserve the beauty so unique to a soul. She didn’t want to be alone. She stands watching her Gallery grow, surrounding herself in art. It is the only thing that gives her joy, that makes her heart smile instead of cry. She’s stood here so long she’s forgotten her own name. And perhaps she’ll stand here to the end of time. Only the lionhearted know. And when the end of time comes all that’s left is a sketch of a forlorn girl cupping the world in her palms and watching the water flow through the cracks in her fingers. And at the very edge of that sketch is a name. Her name was Diana.
Something that just popped into my head.
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