In the quiet November night, Darkwell emerged from the shadows of a blackened alley and set off toward the Elemental Elegance Art Gallery on Maple Street and Artisan. His jaunt was hapless and he passed nary a soul on the street with the exception of a small barking dog. It was shabby, and he paid it no mine.
He found the gallery on Maple and entered, waving his way past the attendant who paid him no mind. He was immediately taken with the first painting positioned near the door.
In the painting, there was a baleful dog in a street, large and infernal. Light poured from its eyes as if its head was a lamplight. It was surrounded by an immense amount of destruction. “The Fierce Dog” was written on a plaque on the bottom. And beneath that: Painted by Elijah Whitman.
Darkwell heard the attendant behind him: “The curated selection of pieces demonstrates a harmonious blend of traditional techniques and avant-garde concepts, inviting patrons to engage in a dialogue with the artists’ creative visions. Whether you’re a seasoned art enthusiast or a casual observer, Elijah Whitman’s art will show that his artistic exploration knows no bounds.”
Darkwell moved from painting to painting and examined each one closely. Some featured Heaven and Hell, others were gorgeous flowers, and some featured frightening landscapes from the imagination of a psychopath—haunted trees reaching for tortured souls and headless animals. A truly surreal painting spoke to Darkwell: a horrific landscape unfolded in front of him, intertwining both vibrant and muted tones, and a rush of humanoid bodies were swept up in an ocean of chaos and horror, though the expressions on the faces of the tortured were of pure excitement.
“The balance of human evil versus the excitement of death,” a voice said to Darkwell, and from behind him emerged Elijah Whitman, a tall and imposing man, but one of refinement. He wore small spectacles and a vest over a very neat dress shirt.
“It’s one of my favorites. It’s called: Whispers of Time.”
Darkwell nodded and took a moment to look away from Elijah and stare back at the painting.
“A very strange painting,” he said. “But it’s a familiar dichotomy.”
“You must be an artist,” Elijah said. “Or maybe an accountant?”
He smiled, but Darkwell did not.
“Accounting is a noble profession,” Elijah pivoted.
“Don’t fret,” Darkwell said. “I am not an accountant, nor am I an artist. I am actually just an admirer.”
Elijah covered his chest with his hand, “Okay, thank goodness, I did not want to offend you…sometimes I speak too soon.”
“Yes, yes,” Darkwell said and motioned to the painting. “I am very impressed. It’s quite an extraordinary work. You would think that it would take a lifetime for people to come to the conclusion that the horrors of the grave are at least a little titillating.”
“I was hoping to make that my ethos,” Elijah said. “I hope to be precocious for a 34-year-old man.”
“I am in no rush, if you would like to explain your intent with this one,” Darkwell pointed toward the painting.
Elijah nodded excitedly. He would be lying if he said people didn’t ask him about intention, but it was always about the headless animals, because of the macabre he supposed.
“I find that our sense of understanding is typically rooted in the mirrors we see,” Elijah began. “What this means is that we see ourselves in television and social media. We are what we consume, after all.” He smiled. “Therefore, critiquing each medium comes down to our perceptions of self and commitment to death—to die with dignity, that is.” Elijah took a moment to wipe his glasses. “That brings us to this painting here,” and he motioned to the horrors presented on the canvas.
There was a great deal of water sweeping up a large throng of people. Their faces were bliss. Soldiers, in black armor with large menacing spears, stabbed at another group of people who were dying in ecstasy. Lastly, fire composed of blue and purple smoke exploded from the sky and crushed the homes of cheering crowds. The entire painting was a celebration of death and destruction.
Continuing, Elijah said, “We see the way to die, and thus we die that way. In our final moments, we whisper to our loved ones that we love them even if we do not, and we visualize those that mean the most even if they mean little. It’s what we know.”
“There is much truth in that,” Darkwell said. “But humans can be surprising…”
“Yes, yes they can!” Elijah pronounced excitedly. “That’s why I put this painting together. I heard a story of a man who died not far from here, a smile on his face. Do you know where he was? It’s grisly…”
“I believe I heard of this one…”
“He was half in and half out of a combine.” Elijah watched Darkwell’s face for surprise, but it did not come. “A wretched way to die, but why smile? Perhaps you must in times of extreme terror.”
Darkwell considered this for a moment.
“But why the expressions of happiness? Why be excited?” Elijah asked. “I’ll tell you why; it means that their realization of death comes at just the right moment. The terror of the moment, the fleeing, gives them just enough time to sprint and come to the final chapter of life on their terms. The excitement of it washes over them, and for a moment there is no contract. It is Death and a new journey as one. They are to cross the threshold of time and existence and start fresh. And in that moment, just before dying, they realize this and become euphoric. That euphoria sweeps them into new life. Into new happiness.”
“It’s true, I suppose,” Darkwell said. “The horror of Death is ingrained in our understanding of death, and of Death. We know it as the finality, but it is little more than the ending summation of a series of experiences. We are dead because we die. No great wonder or mystery. We simply must. It is the ending flourish of life, the finality of a contract guaranteed. Terror only happens when one hasn’t thought it through. But given enough time…I suppose you could.”
Elijah nodded happily and together they looked at the painting. There was a great pause even as other visitors came and went and the attendant rattled off his dense descriptors.
“Would you like to see the rest?” Elijah asked, looking to Darkwell.
Darkwell shook his head. “I came here on pressing business, but now I suppose I stayed for just this one painting. I enjoyed it immensely…including your captivating description.” He turned to leave. Elijah stopped him momentarily and gave him a card for the gallery with a future date attached–which Darkwell agreed to in the interim–and he set back off into the night.
Before returning whence he came, Darkwell pondered his position as Harvester of Souls the lesser, and decided that it might be fitting–at least until he understood more about the desire and understanding of each soul.
