Novel & Cerita Invisible Woman Art

A strong, feminine voice calls, and I turn to find a woman dressed in a black, knee-length sundress with a dusty rose blazer over top walking towards me, her heels, the same dusty rose as the blazer, clicking on the polished floor. “It’s no problem at all. I was looking at all the beautiful artworks.” I reassure quickly, stepping forward and shaking the offered hand. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” The woman says, her eyes softening as she looks at the painting to our left, the painting of a Cree woman holding a dream catcher. “They are.” I agree with a laugh, happy to see someone who appreciates artwork outside of what is considered the norm.

Half of her big, round backside was sticking out. She wasn't wearing any pants; instead, she just had a little white thong with those sheer, skin-colored stockings over her long legs. The sight nearly made my nose bleed. It was breathtaking. I'd never been near a young woman this perfect my whole life. Even if she wouldn't let me do anything else, just letting me touch her for a moment would have added years to my life.

“Thank God! I was so worried, Emma. You’ll see, this will be a good thing” I don’t say anything, because what was there to say. I wasn’t really sure if it would be a good thing on not. Instead on dwelling on that, my eyes wonders to the art on the wall. Awoman crouched down; her face hidden. Her spine was visible and so were her ribs. She seemed to be in pain (well that is my interpretation) as smoky tendrils of darkness came out from her.

The smell of paint and cloth already felt close to me even before I walked in. My heart pounded. “I’m here.” I stepped inside. The air was packed, but not loud. All talked in soft tones, looking at each work with deep care. The pale walls had artworks from different creators; some strange, some lifelike, a few really amazing. I swallowed. I couldn’t lose. I walked to the spot given to me. My hands started to peel off the cover of the picture I was holding. Slowly I revealed it. A silhouette of a woman.

I smirked, curious to know if Jean was just some random guy wanting to get to know me romantically or if he was indeed a lover of art. "Well, Gustave Courbet, of course, but I also like Pablo Picasso, particularly his drawing of The Weeping Woman, and I'm captivated by the work of Kara Walker. She is an American contemporary painter, silhouettist, printmaker, installation artist, filmmaker, and professor who explores controversial topics such as race, gender, sexuality, violence, and identity in her work." "I am thrilled to have the opportunity to connect with someone who shares my passion for Kara Walker's mesmerizing artworks! Recently, I’ve been exploring silhouettes. I’m excited to learn

He stepped aside to show me the wall. There was a new canvas. Large, larger than most of his recent work, and it was different from the dark heavy pieces I’d seen over the past months. The background was lighter — not bright, but open, like morning light through fog. In the center was a figure, a woman, and she was unmistakably me, not realistic, not a portrait, but the suggestion of me, something in the posture and the tilt of the head that I recognized the way you recognize yourself in a reflection that isn’t quite right.

Just two men and their wives. I walked to an art, immediately impressed by it. “This is beautiful,” I muttered. “I could feel the aura around it. It is perfect.” “That is the grasp of solace. It represent confident. Been able to fight off your enemies and gaining the power you need. The artist is a famous, but mysterious woman who never showed herself to the world. This was the only piece of this art she made before her death, and the last one.” I walked closer, looking and noticing every detail. “This art represents me in every way. I am confident and I am grasping the hairs of my enemies in my hand. I am a winner. I am the grasp of solace.”

Once out of earshot, Suede said, “You do that kind of intimidation very naturally.” “I’ve had years to practice.” “It shows.” They slipped into a contemporary gallery. Elena stopped for a long time before one canvas: the silhouette of a woman at the edge of a pier, her back to the world, black hair torn left by a fictional wind. No title. No artist’s plaque. Suede stood beside her and maintained the rhythm of the silence without demanding explanation.

I’m aware the skeletal hand is rather startling, but it’s part of her now and represents the hands of death. “It’s a fucking skeleton. A creepy skeleton. Are you out of your mind?” she shouts. I ignore her distaste of my work. When she sees the entire piece, it will make sense. This isn’t a cute little rose-on-the-ankle session. This is about fucking revenge and art and she’s my fucking canvas. The steam goes out of her and she rests her head back and closes her eyes. The hum of the Dragonfly relaxes me back into the mood I need to be in to finish the piece.

But thick and quiet like oil spreading through water. She reached into the drawer of her vanity. Beneath the perfumes and silk scarves, she’d hidden one thing that still felt hers. A sketchpad. She opened to a blank page. Picked up the pencil. And began. She drew a woman with her mouth sewn shut. A mask tied to her face with gold ribbons. A shadow of a man watching from behind a gilded cage. The pencil moved faster. Darker. Chains. A crown. A bed of roses with thorns pressed into flesh.