He stared back at me.
He was tan and well-built. He had the look about him of somebody lost, like he'd spent most of his life in some vain search for something. Maybe it was someone to give his heart to. Someone to share a life with. Someone who'd stay.
He wore a large crucifix and, though his neck was strong, the cross seemed heavy, causing him to look downward, like he was praying.
I saw the color red shining through him, around him so I covered my canvas with crimson.
I gazed at my model and he stared back at me.
How did he become so misguided?
Was it because his father left?
His mother filling his life every Sunday with a boozed-up dogma, full of self hatred and bitterness?
I picked up a piece of charcoal and began to sketch. Rough outlines at first. Circles and ovals bleeding into one another. Fuzzy, out of focus. Much like his life. Loose images trying to become one complete being.
On the paper his chest started to take form. The ripples of his stomach, the firmness of his pecs. His arms and legs, full of shape and strength. His handsome face. The red background released the buried passion in this man. It consumed him, it consumed me.
I looked at my subject.
He wasn't the man I was painting. He was vacant, empty and that made me angry. This wasn't right. Someone with all this fire, shouldn't be so lost. I wanted to grab him, make him see what could be.
They say if you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back.
I took my matte knife and slashed a gaping hole in the canvas.
I grabbed my jar of turpentine and heaved it, smashing the mirror that hung on the wall across from me.
I looked once more at my model and a million tiny me's looked back.
