I found myself alone in Allen’s studio. I was in a
comfortable state of receptive preparation. Yes. I was awaiting to receive,
through organic transference, the last painting of this series. And there I was
sitting on the same green chair. Allen and Cheryl had yet to make their way
into the studio. I took some golden moments to reflect on all that has transpired
within these walls. Of the all too human majesty, resiliency, and overcoming
that has transpired within these walls. Underneath these lights. Before these
dancing paintings, between the toy sculptures, trinkets, and brushes. All the
canvas’s and promises. Shelves of paint and exhausted spirits craving for
change. I was here, alone, awaiting to channel the raw clarity that is this
series, this work, this life.
I woke up looking through my eyes once more. I exited the
beatific nostalgia of this studio and entered into the stream of here. Of now.
Allen, chin high, bursting with continuity, came down the stairs and into the
studio. His face seemed to be possessed of clairvoyant intentions. Allen was
followed by Cheryl. Her eyes read of angles. They were an exacting set of eyes.
Watchful. Careful. Not wanting a single
thing to fall unnoticed in memory.
Allen prepared a pallet of soft greens. And here, once more,
amid the rhythm of it all, we delved into the canvas. First it was to be
strokes of green highlighted by innocent whites. The brush swayed back and
forth. It was smooth motions. I was reminded of grass in summer winds. And from
here, with the fingertips of our hearts interlocked, we traveled further into
the basement of the morgans. The basement being depicted on the canvas. Second,
it was careful reds and stern brows given to rendition this basement.
Allen, through his brush, descended with us into this
theatre of his a basement. Allen described this theatre as a basement for a
singular purpose. It was a theatre fostered by the Morgan family. A theatre
were children were children were put on display while others still were forced
to have sex.
Before my eyes, Allen remained solemn. His breathing
intensified. His eyes were closed. His mind was a gaping maw of creativity. It
was to be the final movement of this series. And in such a free forming way,
orange paint found its way onto his possession. It was placed on his
fingertips. The orange was forced to give form the children who were forced to
sexual acts on the canvas. This moment in time, this morose platitude, swirled
into the whirlpool of eternity. There, Allen was finished.
Allen’s las act of this series was the placing of a X on the
canvas. Oh, how my mind was lost the subjectivity of it all. It was the royal
allegory of a poet. It was the divinity of a king’s symbolism. It was a painter
and his canvas. X stood for the fracturing of children. X stood for Allen’s
fracturing. X stood for the cutting in two. X stood for separating body and
mind from spirit. X stood for Finality. X stood for the last painting of this
series.
My body ran raw with blood when I considered these words. No
more children should ever be sexually abused. We thought finishing this would
render us with a sense of completion. A sense of solace or closer. It is only
the begging. Thank you for reading. We have only approached the foot of this
heinous mountain. And together we will climb.
