Lady in Red

The thick brush, dipped in dark grey paint, is dragged across the canvas like a charging rhinoceros. Grey streaks mark up the canvas, storm clouds overshadow the image. The artist, George, takes his eyes away from the canvas to look out his window to West 5th Street, covered in streaks of lifeless water, to capture another glimpse of the young women carrying an umbrella, waiting for a taxi. Her mysterious beauty captivates him—he can’t help but gaze towards her, awaiting the moment she turns to face him. She reaches into her purse and extracts a gold tube of lipstick. Through the tattered window pane, George watches the woman carefully run the pink rose lipstick across her bold lips. He returns to his painting.

A dash of his darkest grey—almost black—defines her damp umbrella and the dilapidated buildings around her. He finishes the entire painting except for her—he leaves a blank, white space for the woman.He wants to remember her—she’s one of his favorites. He contemplates what color—he looks back to the wet street, but she is gone.He leaves her presence blank on the page until he can get the right color.

East 54th Street, in the alley between Shamrock Sports Pub and the local Barber Shop; a dismembered body is photographed by the police. Blood is streaked across the back door to the Pub as if the victim were trying to escape. A bloody hand print pressed across a cracked beer bottle, sitting in a pile of broken glass. In thedumpster layered in blood lays the torso, feet and a purse, infested with rats and maggots. The arms and legs are hung over the chain link fence, dangling in the breeze, becoming pale as blood drips to the damp cement below. The hands are nearly severed from the arms—they swing from the strings of skin, rattling against the cold metal fence. Smeared on the brick wall of the Pub is a message written in the victim’s blood—Beauty. An eerie wind passes through the alley as the police gather the mutilated body parts, placing them in evidence bags. Despite the blood bath of scattered ligaments, the decapitated victim’s head cannot be found.Searching for clues to the victim’s identity, they rummage through the purse, finding nothing but a half empty pack of cigarettes, Vogue magazine, and a makeup bag. Without means of identifying the victim, the police leave having gathered their minimal evidence. The sanitation crew arrive to begin the cleaning process.

Back on the West Side, George strolls about the hollow rooms of the local art exhibit. People quietly move from painting to painting, admiring local works of art, critiquing them independently. Among the guests is Javier Polanco, an investor for the National Art Association. As Javier moves to one of George’s pieces, he glances at the piece, then reads the short description on the small card next to the painting, “Lady in Redby G. Bushman: On the wet streets of London, a woman hides her face, unwilling to reveal herself.” Gazing back at the painting, Javier analyzes the black background and grey foregrounds paired with the well defined Lady in Red. George approaches, accidentally brushing the shoulder of Javier, “My apologies, Sir.”

“Oh, it is quite alright, no need to worry.”

Both men return their attention to the painting, taking note ofits many details.

“Lovely use of color don’t you think?” snorted Javier.

George retorts, “I’m sure the artist went through great lengths to get the perfect color.”

“It is certainly a beautiful way of portraying a woman’s insecurities” Javier comments with his hand tucked neatly under his coat pocket.

“On the contrary, it seems to me that the artist wanted the woman to be where she belonged—engulfed by the same darkness she has others to suffer through, turning her back on those she views to be beneath her.”

Put off by the comment, Javier turns to face George, “you are the artist, are you not?”

Without taking his eyes away from the painting, George lets out a soft snicker, “I am.”

“I must ask—why, Lady in Red?”

Smirking, George replied, “I feared that Beauty gave too much away.”