Marianne was at an impasse. She stared at the canvas, puzzled. She had been working on a recreation of Abbott McMallard’s Whaling Vessel off the Crimson Coast, an unappreciated "portrait" from McMallard’s early period. The painting depicts the FV Winder, waves crashing against its bow, the imposing Crimson Coast looming in the background. The whole tableau is drenched in a supple orange glow from the setting sun, causing an appealing effect of ambiguity—where does the lands end and the surf begin?—which prominent critics suggest was in support of McMallard’s political project. The critics, of course, didn’t understand the piece. Not like Marianne did.
She had spent the last several days recreating it, with meticulous care. Thanks to her masterful talent and eminent visual memory, she was able to reproduce it, after having seen it only twice in gallery over four years ago, down to the slightest detail. Almost. She had gotten everything to the finest hesitance in the brush strokes, every quaver in the waves, but it was still missing something, however much the uninitiated would declare it an exact replica. It was missing the
it
, the electric vivacity that characterizes McMallard’s work. It was perfect. How could it be wrong?
She was interrupted in her contemplation by one of her comrades, a nondescript fellow whom she was convinced was cursed with a name that could not be remembered.
"It took forever to find you. You’re wanted in the scheming room," he said.
"I’ve been here, working."
He squinted. "Looks like you’ve been just sitting here."
"I’m thinking, trying to solve a problem. It’s a part of my art practice.”
His eyes narrowed. He stared at the recreation for a moment. "This isn’t art."
He turned around and stood in the doorframe, looking back at Marianne. "The crew needs you. Art can wait." She did her best to keep a neutral face, and she set her pallet and brushes down, following.
—
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09-Sep-2022 02:24:05
