[CW10] The Doll Paintress

The Doll Paintress

It happened all so suddenly, on one hot afternoon in the middle of summer.

I was making my usual rounds, passing by our usual spots. I inspected the usual walls, the usual ceilings, the usual spots as you do. I looked for each mural that belonged to “us” to make sure. In a few places I saw little squiggles on them — not unusual — a young and unexperienced painter trying to make their first mark on the wall. It was always easy to fix, I was one of the best to do it. My tools are of higher quality than money could buy for an artist around here — because I didn’t. The boss paid good, for him it was an easy to make investment, the message should always be clear — everywhere. No matter which alley you go down, you are always reminded who owns it.. not the city, not the police, it was him.

So I made my rounds and checked all the walls looking what needs to be touched up when I walked into… her.

I had seen her… I hesitate to call them murals — they are more. When you walk down a downtrodden train station underpass you see all the random graffiti various artists and teenagers left, if you have an eye for it you can see which of them are just random expressions of perceived oppression and which ones are from local gangs marking their territory — this is what I call murals around here.

Not her work, you did not need a trained eye to spot it.

Her work is obvious and captivating to anyone.. anything really. I once saw a cat launched on a chest-high wall staring at a house captivated. When I turned to see what enchanted the animal, I was frozen in place myself. A piece of art so great you think a truck from a museum or some institute would come by any minute to carefully dislodge the wall and carry it off to a gallery. It was not blind either — it never happened that it intersected or let alone covered up the marks and the warnings from the gangs or the boss — she knew what she was doing. She knew which was a simple teenagers cry for independence and which was a carefully crafted message for the people in the know. I always wondered if she is from one of the others herself, was hired by one of them, or if she just grew up around her.

And there she was, her almost pure white skin glistering spotlessly in the hot afternoon sun, as her arm gracefully swings around a can of paint.

I stopped in my tracks when I spotted her and just observed her technique. It looked like witchcraft the way she floated around the wall with cans in hand, laying line and shade with not only a single drop misplaced, but not one dropped either. My clothes where the ones I wore every day for my job, full of splatters of cans exploding or just the usual drip the nozzles have, but her… not a single drop on her snow white outfit. I could not comprehend if it was a mere expression of superiority or if her fashion wasn’t a statement at all, but it looked magical. I watched her for minutes dance around completely forgetting my duties and the heat I was exposed to — she did not look like she noticed the warmth at all that day so neither did I. When all of a sudden she stopped, rested her tools on the ground and took a few steps back. She looked up the canvas she just filled and for the first time.. a small smile. I looked to the side to see what she saw and once more could not believe my eyes. I walked past this wall just yesterday, it was covered in all sorts of little paintings and crudely drawn letters… but now, now it was covered completely by her art.

When I could barely loosen my eyes from the wall and looked back at her, I met her gaze.

They were back to what I now know to be their default, a blank stare like that of a porcelain doll reflecting the world around her. Before I could really think of what I would say in that situation, she put out any lingering flame in my mind like a cigarette in an ash tray: “Am I in the way?”. I could not fathom how someone like her would ask someone like me — a hired propaganda preserver — something this humbling.

She was not, I felt more in the way than I had all my life though.

She did not cover up one of the boss’ messages so she really wasn’t. I do not know what possessed me that day, to make me this strong. I feel something in what I saw on the wall I saw in myself, and it gave me the strength, the strength to strike up a conversation.
I grew up not talking much — when I did I was quickly made not to. So I really don’t know how I managed that day, but I did somehow. After a few words, a few questions about her art that had gone unanswered, I had remembered my duty and gone back to my patrol… and she followed me. I don’t understand why, maybe she wanted to see one of the other painters around here do their work? Maybe she was intrigued by how someone like me could have the audacity to talk to someone like her? She never told me, she rarely tells me anything. Walking the neighborhood not alone for the first time in ages was awkward.. but it was nice.
I can’t afford listening to music or painting sketches in my head, I have to stay focused to not miss anything on the wall or on the people walking by. Some of my predecessors got careless, saw something a rival “employer” painted and quickly painted it over — not seeing that the artist was still around, and they got stabbed about it.. and worse. So walking around with company was nice, it made me feel safer in a way, even if we had no affiliation. I always see others walk around in groups and envied how safe they must feel, nobody alone draws a knife on you when two others could punch you in return.

So that day I guess I became her acquaintance?

Something like that anyway. From there on I saw her more often, like she was hiding before but now that she saw me she didn’t feel like retreating to the shadows when recognizing my steps.
The more I saw of her work the more I got confused. I saw some really skilled painters in my day drawing all sorts of crazy things, but they all were different, much different. When someone draws on others property for their amusement, for a statement, or because they get paid for it they don’t stop there. They all have tattoos and other adornments on their body, you could easily spot them in a crowd.
Not her, her pristine skin was untouched by any needle whatsoever. Her clothes were spotless, like she gets her paint cans from an impossible engineer that figured out what the industry didn’t in decades. Her steps were light and her hands were soft. The more I got to observe her the more I started to think she must have been an alien or an angel that dropped from the sky into this neighborhood ravaged by crime and violence. She didn’t fit at all into her environment, she struck out just as much as did her work.

And she was quiet.

What you would think was casual smalltalk to most felt like an investigation with her, every word out of her mouth — if it came out — was a measured and sharp reply. Never giving up much more than absolutely needed. You’d offer her a glass of water all you got was a short acknowledgment of the fact, you asked her if she had food she’d say “yes” or “no”, nothing in between or around.
You could never get anything from her past or her present, being what she had for lunch or what star she accidentally fell from. To this day I don’t even know how she can afford the cans of paint she uses or the clothes she wears, she never says. I don’t even think she does it to hide something, I feel like she just doesn’t care for it.
The only time I really see her shine — show emotion at least briefly — is when she finished a painting. It is a brief window into her inner world, a few seconds of a smile, a tilted head, a light in her eyes. It quickly passes like the last rays of sunshine of a dawning sun. A flicker of light in a dark ocean of something that hides underneath the surface.
The more time I spend with her, or I spend observing her rather, the more I feel I understood. Her body and her clothes was not a showing of skills for others, she couldn’t care less for their opinion. It was just how she was… or so I thought

That is; until one day when I saw her in front of a blank wall.

Every few months a politician in an effort to get more votes thinks to send out one of their goons in the blue overalls to “clean up” a wall or three around here. Even they know not to paint over the boss’ markings so they usually pick some random places nobody here cares about but they can take pictures in front of.
That particular week though they must have felt bold.. the week after a few bodies got dropped as a result. They painted a whole stretch of houses on the main street in pure white. Wouldn’t it be for the people, the street, the cars, or the air you’d think this was a respectable city.
And there I saw her, standing in front of this fully white wall. I myself considered leaving a mark, I’m not much of a painter actually but something about a blank canvas just invited me to try… but not her. She just stood there staring at the wall. She painted over so much of others work, but here she did not move, she did not raise her tools.
I stood next to her for a while, before I asked if something was wrong. This is when I got from her what I think had been the longest string of words she said in months: “I wanted to paint here today… this was what I thought. But I don’t have a canvas, someone took it away”. I just looked at her bewildered, confused: “But… isn’t this a true canvas? You could put anything on here just like you do anywhere else, better even”. She looked at me with eyes more lost than usual, almost in despair: “I can’t… I can’t… she is like me, and nobody painted me, so how could I paint her?”.

I didn’t understand, I only understood that it mattered.

The next week when blood was shed and lines redrawn she returned to the wall and finally painted it. When she was done with her work she didn’t look happy or curious like usual… just relieved.
I don’t understand her, I don’t think I could… but I want to. I wonder… I wonder what star she fell from.

[CW10] The Doll Paintress