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.