Hartfield Had Two Winners in the Hinds Literary Festival

Heart and Soul

     It was bright out, the kind of bright that calls out to the small, young families with little children to go out and play. Large cumulus clouds decorated the light blue sky, creating different shapes of animals and objects that kids would daydream about. There was a smell of early summer, late spring deep in the cool breeze that lurked around the green grass, slightly damp with morning dew. This same breeze traveled throughout the meager town, infiltrating open windows and intruding on the building's inhabitants. One building in particular housed a painter deeply invested in his craft. 

     He was an exceptionally skilled painter, often painting realistic portraits of men and women. He would put his heart and soul into his paintings, attempting to truly capture the essence of his subject. From the subject's eyes, nose, and mouth, all the way to the loose strands of hair that flew loose on the person's head, he would paint it in incredible detail. He made good money from his work too. He lived in a respectable home, filled with finished and unfinished pieces, and the extremely potent smell of turpentine.

     He was an incredibly sociable man despite his intense dedication to his work. Most inhabitants of the little town knew of the excellent painter. He had many friends, and many knew him by name. He would meet old college buddies at the local bar and would also be seen hanging around the park, soaking in sun rays while gathering inspiration for his next masterpiece.

     However, there was a melancholic shift in the man after the death of his young lover. She had suddenly died of a stroke, leaving the man a widower left with only the company of oil on stretched canvas. She was gone. His love was gone. He would still occasionally leave the house, but only when he was on the verge of starvation. He no longer accompanied his friends at the bar, and the park had not seen his once happy face in months. 

     One bright, sunny day, inspiration ignites the sullen man and gives him a glimmer of hope for the first time since his lover's untimely demise. He went to his easel, clearing it of an unfinished project that was likely to never get worked on again. He collected his supplies and canvas, setting them strategically around his workplace. The painter had never drawn a portrait completely from his own memory; however, he would never forget the face of his beautiful love.

     He started on the underpainting of her face. There was almost something eerie about the finished rough draft of this new project. The quick painting looked like her, it had her essence…but it was not her. This uncanny version of his love almost made the man start over, but strangely, he was too tired. He had planned on working for at least four more hours, but he was growing exhausted. He covered his pallet and cleaned his brushes, the smell of turpentine evident in the room almost to the point that it was suffocating. The man went to sleep, cold at the loss of the young woman that once slept there. He awoke in the night, a slight chill going up his spine. The urge to paint was itching through his entire body. He wanted to paint. He needed to paint. The man got up and went to his easel. He looked at her for a minute. He gazed upon the faint outline of his love. He felt her calling to him. He wasn't sure when he had picked up the wooden paint brush, but his love’s face was now more defined. It was as if her face was calling to him. He continued working until the sun rose, and then he worked some more. Some people could have called the painting finished at this point, but the man did not. 

     “No, no it’s not good enough. It’s not her.”

     He frantically looked at the supposed painting of his deceased wife. It had a clear resemblance of his lost love, but in his eyes, in his heart, and in his soul it was not her. The man went to add more paint to his pallet, but then it dawned on him. The man had not bought paint in months. He struggled standing up, feeling somewhat lighter than usual. He went to move and had to steady himself in order to stay upright. He stumbled out the door, leaving his unfinished piece behind. 

     The people in the town almost didn't recognize the once lively fellow. He used to be a well built man, strong and filled out. However, as he walked through the market, his new, gaunt face haunted anyone who gazed upon it. He looked sick and tired. He looked drained of any life and color that was once so prevalent. This man was not the man that this town once knew.

     He didn't speak a word to anyone while he was out. He seemed in a rush, despite the obvious trouble he was having being mobile. The people in the town started wondering what had happened: 

     “Was he in some sort of accident?”

     “Has he stopped eating and sleeping entirely?”

     “Maybe he’s gone mad!”

     The man arrived shortly after his dire, yet short trip to the market. He immediately went back to work on the painting. The canvas had not moved from its spot on the easel, and the subject’s gaze still lingered in the same, intended direction. The depiction of the man’s wife was a beautiful and youthful portrait of a fair skinned woman with dark, luscious locks that cascaded across her shoulders, almost like a silk shawl. Her eyes were fixated at a three-fourths angle, not quite looking towards the viewer. 

     The man started to paint. He painted, and he painted, and he painted, until he wasn't sure how many days had gone by. He had not gotten up to look at himself in the mirror, only gone from his bed to the easel repeatedly for who knows how long. He painted with a frantic style, completely different from that of his previous calm and collected technique he had perfected for years. This way of painting was different. It wasn't like him. It was as if he was being controlled by a puppeteer. The more detail he added, the more realistic she looked. He added more detail to her lips, then her nose, and then finally, her eyes. He looked at the painting so intensely that he didn't see anything else around him. This painting was everything. This painting was special. This painting…was her.

     Three days later, after receiving concerned calls from people in the town, the local police knocked on the man’s door. They had been told that the man was not eating or taking care of himself. The police knocked one more time before realizing the door was unlocked. Slightly alarmed, the two policemen walk into the painter’s home. The police are bombarded with the strong smell of turpentine when they step inside the painter’s house. As they look around, they notice nothing out of the ordinary, except that the man is nowhere to be seen. They continue searching the house until they approach the easel. They stopped and stared at the painting that was propped on the easel with dried up and spilled art supplies. The portrait displayed before them was beautiful. It was of a woman with fair skin, which almost looked as if it were glowing. The woman also had dark hair that looked like it was moving around. And her face was so lifelike. Her eyes looked straight at the viewer, the emotion that resided behind her eyes was unreadable. She looked so… alive.

     “He really puts a lot of effort into these paintings of his,” stated one of the policemen, still stunned by the beautiful piece in front of him. 

     “It looks like he puts his heart and soul into his work,” says the other policeman, who was making his way towards the painting. Something about this painting was almost speaking to him. As the police officer drew closer to the painting, the more the force called to him. He reached his hand towards the canvas, and carefully brushed his fingers against the almost dried oil paint. The policeman jerks his hand back as if he’s been burned. The skin of the woman in the painting was warm to the touch.