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The door of the subject's room is painted pink and has been painted pink since the subject reached the age of seventeen. Pressed flowers are displayed within a wooden frame hanging from this door. ...
March 16, 2008
The door of the subject's room is painted pink and has been painted pink since the subject reached the age of seventeen. Pressed flowers are displayed within a wooden frame hanging from this door. In the frame is carved the name "Christine," a figment– or perhaps pure fiction.
There is nobody named Christine in this house.
Yet within the room, the subject takes its place before an easel, brush poised above a clean canvas. Refusing to be restricted by either an apron or some semblance of sanity during the painting process, all five feet and seven inches of the subject, not sparing the oversized tank nor the jeans that hug thin legs, are splattered in pink, turquoise, and white, a combination the subject has found to produce a fourth color when the acrylics are mixed: silver. The subject's hair is as colorful as its palette, with pink, turquoise, and white creating streaks among the wild silver that might sit flat if the subject allowed it. Dark make up around the eyes lend them a delicate and feminine appearance. Operative word: appearance. A silver ring adds an edge to sweetly glossed lips, complemented by four ornaments in the right ear. Various beaded necklaces adorn the subject's neck.
She paints reality on the walls. Unmatched is her ability to recreate the human face– she has some experience in that department. For beneath her wild looks, she was once–
It doesn't matter. It has been painted over. Painted over, painted over. Paint it over.
Work it with a smile. Nobody will suspect a thing
There used to be a boy who lived in that house. I wonder where he went. I wonder what became of him. That girl came along. She looks just like him. His sister? He didn't have a sister before. Cousins? Who knows?
A strange girl, that Christine. She looks so happy, so free. But she's hiding something, you know. You can tell from the way her smile flees when you mention the boy who lived in that house. She's hiding something, you know, under her oversized tanks, oversized t-shirts, oversized everything. She doesn't dress to show it off. She doesn't have anything to show! Flat as a surfboard. She looks so happy, so free.
Feet too big. Jaw too strong. Chest too flat. Hips too narrow. Shoulders too broad. Hands too large. Lips too thin. Hiding something. Judged and judged– but it's all right. It's what I wanted. It's better than before. I don't need to be beautiful; I just need to be me. I don't need to be admired; I just need to be free.
There used to be a boy who lived in that house. That girl came along. He's doing much better now.
A photograph sits in a frame. It's the only one of its kind in the house. The rest have been tucked away; it's easier this way. It shows a boy sitting on a bench, with golden hair and a golden smile. Extraordinary boy. He could have had the world. He didn't want the world. Then what did he want?
Silver medals line the walls. Silverware lie in the drawers. Silver rings and silver hair. The subject is a second-rate kind of girl, but it's actually very satisfying.
She paints the boy who lived in the house, who lived in the room before it was pink, who lives in her smile, who lives in her laugh, who lives in the happiness he never had, who shares all her secrets, who suffers no more, who leaps from the canvas with golden hair and a golden smile.
Then she paints it over.