The Art of Purpurlia

“He who turns green transforms completely.” -Michelle Liew

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A town with a connection to people. To another world. That was Purpurlia.

Purpurlia,covered in an ethereal purple glow that stemmed from its artist, Lilacia, was a town of decrepit, old houses. Dark woods ran along its edge. The houses, none lit with the blessing of electricity, understood only the tone of darkness.

The run-down town’s image was complete with stories shrouded in mystery. Some said that witchcraft gave life to the town;others spoke of Lilacia. The mysterious talent could literally bring paintings to life. They said that a particular colour she used, amaranthine veil, had supernatural properties.

Painted flowers danced in the wind; people she drew on the canvas walked off it, grew in size, and scoured the streets.

Perhaps it was Lilacia’s talent which gave her paintings power, perhaps it was the veil. Either way, visitors came in droves to her gallery.

And there were rumours that the strange colour did more than bring art to life; it revealed secrets better left as they were-buried.

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Among the many visitors to Lilacia’s studio was Roderick, an artist like Lilacia. Unlike her, his work was uninspired-the people he painted had wan, sallow faces; always in a dour mood, he painted only lifeless, wilted bushes.

His paintings were devoid of colour.

Of course, he envied Lilacia. Jealousy gnawed viciously at him whenever he watched her paintings come to life. He determined to discover her secret.

Late one evening, after she had shut her shop for the day, he made his way surreptitiously into her studio. The scent of paint and turpentine filled the air with papable mystery. Her paintings, many half-finished, seemed to breathe.

At the center of the room stood a lavender bush, its root and veins pulsing faintly, with an otherworldly vitality.A tattered note under it, written in Lilacia’s hand read:

“Regret and the veil are one. Beware the colour that feeds on the dark.”

A few jars of amaranthine veil stood on a nearby shelf, its colour seeming to turn slightly green under the dim light. Ignoring the warning, he grabbed them and made his way out of the studio, filled with excitement and dread.

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Back in his studio, Roderick started painting feverishly as soon as he set up a plain canvas. He smeared, scrawled, brushed - and doused the canvas liberally with the amaranthine veil.

But his nightmares soon began. He first saw Lilacia’s face, stern and accusing.

Over the next few weeks, his masterpiece seemed to come alive - shadowy figures danced among the lilac flowers. As word of his talent spread,people flocked to his studio to watch his creation come to life, and for the first time, Roderick felt the rush that came with adulation.

Adulation, like all pleasures, soon soured.

But subtle changes crept into his work- shadows grew larger, and the dancing figures pranced about in reality, much like Lilacia’s art. But while she brought to life people with warmth and cheer on their faces, those he created came off the canvas with faces etched with sorrow, dancing with unsettling energy.

They gathered in front of him, their looks yearning and pleading for something he could grasp.

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Desperate, Roderick raced to Lilacia’s studio and burst through the door. Once brimming with life, its poignant vacancy grabbed his soul.

The lavender bush, once pulsing with otherworldly vitality, was now dead. Roderick gazed at it silently, its dead vines seeming to creep around him, filling him with a painful understand.

When he used the Amaranthine veil, it had taken life, not given it. Each of his brushstrokes had drained not only his existence, but the very essence of Purpurlia.

The figures on the paintings still danced, but they reached for him, almost hungrily.

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Roderick’s gallery, now abandoned, still held his painting. The jars of Amaranthine veil he had stolen now oozed with green.

The shadowy figures still moved, but a familiar face joined them, its mouth rounded into a silent scream.

Purpurlians who passed by spoke of hearing voices as they passed: “The veil he steals takes back.”