The Red Painting

It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

A picture of a vast forest, with blurred trees merging in lines, and in the back, the barely recognizable silhouette of a covered figure. An impressionist work of art, all painted in red.

I noticed the painting the day it arrived, during one of my many visits to the local museum. I used to go there every month to walk through new exhibitions and dream about becoming an artist. I got inspired by the elegant and solid work of new artistic voices, and yet, there was something different and incredibly fascinating about the red painting. It wasn’t elegant, nor graceful. It was an unsettling explosion of rage of which nobody knew anything about.

I heard two museum workers say the painting came as a donation of one of their most respectable sponsors, Mr. Todd, a very rich man. He said he found the painting at his door one morning, without a note or anything that could tell him where it came from. He gave clear instructions to keep the painting in the museum, far away from him, where he could never see it. No one heard from him after that.

Only very few people found appreciation for the red painting. Most people agreed that the painting was hideous—a wicked, unholy manifestation of madness. They even avoided its presence, looking down whenever they walked too close to it. There were others who rumored stories of the red painting being cursed. They said Mr. Todd was its first victim, haunted him until he became insane, and that the same fate awaited to anyone who looked at the devilish painting for too long.

I never believed any of those stories. My heart belonged to the red painting from the very first moment I saw it. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of such magnificent work of art. I sat in front of it for hours, just staring, studying every single detail, and admiring its stunning technique. Everyone else walked by, and once or twice someone sat beside me for a few minutes, but I stayed there, petrified in awe. I stayed until the day became night, until the guards had to walk me out of the building.

I started to come every day to the museum just to look at the red painting. I sat in front of it all day, admiring that great composition with no signature, no name, nothing but red.

Everything was red. The landscape had a big, deep sky, but it was not blue. The clouds faded in violent brush strokes, but they were not white. The leaves of the trees fell like tears, but none were green. The shadows of the painting went from the brightest shade of red to the darkest, creating a contrast between all the elements, but still, everything was red. Even the blurry silhouette behind the trees, whose cloak blushed on flames of crimson fire, surrounded by a ginger fog. You couldn’t see its face, but even then, you could still feel it looking back at you. The eyes of strangeness, hidden behind a shadow—deep marks of paint, fiercely standing one in front of the other, creating a color as dark as the night. Still, if you looked carefully, you could tell it was not black. It was all red.

My friends from art school underappreciated such a masterpiece, saying it looked more like the remnant of a fight to death between two clawed beasts. They insulted the artist’s technique and lack of creativity, labeling it as a grotesque massacre—a horrendous bloodbath of delusion, and they thought I was insane for loving such monstrosity.

Perhaps they feared the majestic splendor of the painting, the life behind the art that kept calling me to stay. It haunted my mind during the day, and at night I dreamt of myself walking through the lonely halls of the museum, looking for my crimson treasure. I tried to convince my friends that there was nothing wrong with me or the painting. The rumors were just crazy lies, because there was nothing to fear about something so lovely.

A couple of months later, another painting arrived at a museum on the other side of town. It was the exact same composition, all painted in red. Once again, there was no signature or note attached to it. More, and more paintings came after that one, coming not only to the museum, but also some schools and houses. Suddenly, I found my beautiful red painting everywhere I went.

It also became the rumor of the town. Everyone was talking about it. Many were trying to find out who was the artist behind it, but the few that ventured deeper into that mystery never came back— vanished from existence, just like Mr. Todd. A few people started to defend the paintings, showing the same passion I had, but their voices were silenced by the protest of those who wanted to get rid of them.

Against all hopes, I never received a painting. I opened the door of my house every morning hoping to see it there but finding nothing at all. I tried to replicate the painting, but despite my best efforts, nothing I painted looked like the red painting. None of the materials I used seemed to work, from safflower oil to homemade watercolors. Nothing could imitate its unique texture. I became desperate, losing all my patience and staying up all night painting, without any success.

The only time I ever came close to recreating the red painting was when I accidentally cut my finger with a palette knife. I was mixing the paint with such impatience that the blade jumped out of my hands and sliced through my skin. A single drop of blood fell to the canvas, with the same lightness of the red painting.

Astonished, and as if my hand had a life of its own, I pressed my wound against the canvas. I let my blood draw the silhouette of the trees and the clouds, ignoring the pain. That single brush I made with my wounded skin looked just like the painting that had tormented my dreams. A stroke of fear fell into my heart, but I tried to push it away, unwilling to accept that my painting was nothing but absolute greatness. I took all of the failed paintings in my room and I ripped them apart, unsure of what to do with this confusion inside my chest, but I forgot I wasn’t the only one scared.

The town had drowned into chaos, and that night I heard the cries of the protesters sneaking through my window. My sorrow was deep as I looked out just to find hundreds of red paintings being thrown into a huge bonfire. Every single painting that the town received was now being consumed by the fiery flames. All of them, except for the original red painting, which according to Mr. Todd’s desperate warnings, had to stay in the museum. The town only agreed to not destroy it, as long as the access to the painting was denied to everyone.

I ran immediately to try and stop such an act of cruelty, begging for my red painting to be saved, but I was pushed away by the multitude. I watched with teary eyes as the most daring creation on earth turned into ashes. All the people cherished and danced around the fire, but I couldn’t stay to witness the massacre of my deepest love.

I ran towards the museum, fighting against the guards to let me in. I cursed my weakness that night, when they pushed me out. I begged them to let me see it just one last time, crawling down my knees. They looked down at me with pity, like I was a lost creature, and simply said that even if they wanted to, absolutely no one was allowed inside the museum at night. It was safer that way, they said. There was a dark shadow in their eyes, the kind of shadow that follows those who experienced terrible things but are not allowed to talk about them.

The next morning, I came back. The guards said no word as they let me in, but I could still feel that shadow of their eyes imploring me to escape. I didn’t. I walked straight to where I knew the red painting was, and even though there was a huge metal box covering it, I sat in front of it. I have studied it long enough to memorize every brush, every trace. I sat there, just imagining what the red painting looked like, as if I could see past those silver walls.

As the night approached, I made my way to the exit, but I hid inside a storage room. I moved no muscle and made no sound. I turned as invisible as a ghost, until everyone left the museum, and the doors were locked.

I got out of my hiding place. I visited the red painting once more, caressing the cold metal surrounding it, and I said goodbye to it.

On my way out, I stopped to the sight of a soft light coming out of one of the painting rooms. A trace of red stains disappeared behind the door. I walked into the room, and I almost stopped breathing when I saw her, a woman working on another painting. Around her were dozens of empty buckets, with traces of red tint still smeared at the bottom. A table with brushes and all sorts of blades rested beside her.

I stumbled with one of the buckets as I was trying to get closer, and she turned to me. She looked at me with her big bright eyes, slightly covered by her long black hair. She didn’t blink once, she froze me in place with her eyes, and that pale skin, so pale you could see the dark veins popping out of them. I was paralyzed. My blood went cold, and I couldn’t say a word.

“Do you like it?” She said, pointing at the unfinished red painting behind her.

I nodded, and she smiled. A huge smile revealed her sharp, yellow teeth. I had to look away, and that is when I noticed she didn’t have any more paint left on her palette.

“Let me help you,” I turned back to the shelves with all the paint materials. I went through all the bottles of paint, not believing my heart for one second. She didn’t say a word, neither did she stop looking at me with that troubling smile.

“There’s no red paint in here,” I fianally said when I finished looking through all the shelves. She choked, on what I believed was intended to be a laugh.

“Of course not,” she said. “I use the museum’s materials to paint. They have all the colors except red.”

“Sorry?” I asked. Perhaps I heard wrong. Perhaps there was a better explanation to this, but when I turned, she was still looking at me with those crazy eyes and that horrid smile.

I observed her as she put the brush down and took one of the blades from the table. I stand still, like all those days I spent at the museum, just staring at that beautiful work of art full of life. I looked behind her to my loved red painting one last time before she repeated those dreadful words.

“They have all the colors except red.”