The Artist and the Angel By Conrad Neil Chapter 1 The Artist A bite of al dente pasta disappeared behind

d quivering, crimson painted lips. Once she had the morsels trapped behind her gleaming white teeth, she seemed more to toy with them and push them about with her tongue than chew them. The moment she had swallowed, the cat-like grin returned to her lips, causing me to shift in my seat. She was a friend from High School, but it was eerie how little she had changed since then. Still unalterably pretty, she seemed to be very much aware of this beauty, and utterly incapable of hiding her self-admiration. My previous hopes that in the time since our adolescent years she had progressed intellectually were at each moment being further and further dashed with each ditzy giggle. I groaned slightly and leaned back in my chair, the steely prongs of my fork toying mindlessly with my now lukewarm food. She was undeniably pleasant to look at, with baby blonde curls spilling like a waterfall of golden silk over her shoulders, and the curvaceous upper half of her body leaning towards me slightly. I smiled wistfully and averted my gaze, thinking of what an excellent job she did of making herself into a temptation. Discomfortingly, her eyes did not hold the same disarmingly innocent quality as her body(face?), and each time they turned to me they held the same piercing, ravenous expression. It occurred to me with a start that she looked at me the same way she looked at her food; as if I were a piece of meat to be consumed, thoroughly enjoyed and then discarded. My appetite robbed of me, I sighed wearily and ran my hands back through my chestnut-tinted hair, her eyes continuing to dance over my face as I did. She at last

The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11

picked up on the very subtle clues that I was not particularly enjoying myself, and smirked slightly as a plan formulated in her head. She took a moment to drain the last of the wine from her glass, staining her lips and mouth an even deeper and more profuse scarlet. You know you look like youre getting tired, she cooed affectionately, her toes playing with the hem of my jeans, Why dont we head back to my place and relax, hm? My eyes widened involuntarily at this blatant advance, as I unconsciously jerked my chair back from the table, making a horrible grating noise on the stone ground. She winced at the noise, but blinked and continued to look patiently at me, awaiting my response. Erm I, uh must say Im rather surprised, I remarked, licking my dry lips slightly, a first date seems rather early for that. She released another one of her high-pitched, girlish giggles to indicate that she did not agree with my marriage first policy. Her mirth was short lived, as the next second she realized that I was in actuality, turning down her offer. You mean you dont want to? Whats the matter with you, are you gay? she replied in disbelief, a clear look of annoyance and anger crossing her seemingly innocent features. I sighed, knowing that whatever I said, shed never understand, and that shed never come to terms with it gracefully. Contrary to popular opinion, there are some (straight?) men who want more out of life than that, my dear, I answered as I pushed in my chair. She was shooting daggers at me with her eyes now, but stunned speechless. I swore I could almost see The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11 2

steam rising from her, as a bright red enflamed her cheeks from the humiliation of having been rejected. I dont think this is going to work out, she said in a low, poisonous voice that it seemed such a delicate creature could never produce. On that point, I agree with you whole-heartedly, I replied, my own voice dead and neutral. She became even more infuriated at this response, but I didnt bother to continue the conversation, I merely took the check from the table and began to walk away. Before I could escape, I heard her voice ring out viciously behind me a final time. You werent my type anyways! she shouted after me in exasperation, causing the surrounding patrons to glance at her quizzically. At least I have something to be thankful for, I thought with a dry grimace of half pain, half amusement. Making my way to the register to pay for the meal, I turned and left the restaurant, coming out into the bustling streets. Pushed along with the ebbs and flows of the human tide, I allowed myself to be carried in the stream with almost complete passivity. Every so often, a stranger would jolt suddenly into me, and without so much as a word or a glance, disappear again into the sea of people to continue on with their business. It has always struck me as one of lifes greatest paradoxes that when surrounded by millions of people is when I have felt the most alone. Times Square seemed to me a desolate place, where among the throng of society my face became merely one more nameless blotch of human color in the ever shifting, ever convulsing whole.

The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11

Everyone became anonymous together, and so everyone became equal equally insignificant. I passed out of the massive crowds that stampeded the main streets and back into the deserted parts of town. Here there was at least enough room to walk without colliding abruptly with another person, but this space dictated that the others who meandered shiftlessly down the alleyways would cast me dark, furtive glances as I walked, looking away the instant my eyes met theirs. At last I came to my apartment building, a quaint Victorian style building with a surprising amount of class for the overall grime of New York. A brass lion head door knock jutted proudly from the door that creaked as I pulled it outwards. The inside of the building was well lit if somewhat tight, and I had to stoop somewhat to avoid hitting my head on the top of the stairwell. Fumbling with my keys, I jammed them roughly inside the lock, turning them and failing to open the door. Muttering in frustration, I attempted at least another three times before it swung open, revealing the cluttered interior of my combined apartment and studio. Inside there was piles of scattered art supplies, with paints, brushes, pencils, and papers lying atop every imaginable surface. Shutting the door behind me perhaps a bit more forcefully than Id intended, I blinked as some of the pencils rolled slowly to the floor. Shrugging slightly with a sigh, I stepped over the chaos strewn over my floor, approaching the part of the room Id devoted to my painting. A thick, splattered tan cloth was covering the floor, and easels with various works of art positioned over its folds, seeming to be windows into other worlds. I stood in front of my paintings, each of them seeming strangely empty and unfulfilling. To my left, a beautiful sunset was captured in striking detail, with delicate brushstrokes blending together the violet and red tones that it cast across The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11 4

the glimmering waters. To my right, jagged mountain peaks tore across the skyline, their glacial peaks shimmering like diamonds as a crisply blue river darted between their snowy crests. Yet, even for all their beauty, my paintings had not granted me the fulfillment that I desired. At the end of each day when I returned to my studio, I was alone, and each morning when I woke to face another day, I was solitary. An intense feeling of having been cut off from the world washed over me, as I sank down into my couch and cradled by head in my hands. A chilling sensation of total aloneness washed over me, as the sound of deafening silence filled my ears. Bitterness bubbled up from deep within me, pricking over my skin like the jabbing of dozens of scalding needles. I began to pace my studio in indignation, brows furrowed into a thoughtful frown. My thoughts were dark and chaotic, racing from one frustrated musing to another, while my eyes darted about wildly like icy blue lightning. Am I doomed to be forever alone? I demanded inwardly, swiping my hand roughly across a tabletop and scattering art supplies to the floor. Now feeling an incredible weight descend upon me, my chest heaved for breath against this burden, as moisture began to well up in the corners of my eyes. Dizziness began to shake the world around me, and I stumbled towards my balcony with my vision spinning and blurred. Throwing open the door, I emerged gasping and softly crying into the cold air of the night, supporting my weight against the railing at the edge of the urban precipice. For a moment I stood there in the chilling darkness, my body wracked by spasms of despair. Suddenly, my exhalations were interrupted by a familiar sound. Glancing downwards in curiosity, I was that illuminated within the beam of a street light, my The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11 5

date stood giggling with another man. Apparently, my rejection had not left her utterly emotionally incapacitated. It seemed patently obvious they had only just met, but despite this, they seemed to be remarkably affectionate with one another. She pulled him hungrily into a long, breathy kiss, while he took the liberty of exploring every imaginable surface and curve of her body with his fingertips. At least shes found someone whos her type, I thought dryly, before turning away from the spectacle before me. Utterly disgusted and feeling hollow inside, I slipped back into my apartment, among the paintings. Now my eyes roved over them in half-hearted appreciation; how majestic their sloping, sun kissed-hills, how lofty their cotton-ball clouds, how tranquil their murmuring waters! Years had I practiced the techniques of painting, years had I honed my capacity to create beauty. And they were beautiful. But their beauty was that of flatness, of lifelessness, and ultimately, they were no more real than my fantasies of companionship and deep, abiding love. Clenching my fists in frustration, in hopelessness, I gazed upwards towards the heavens. Am I the only one left in the world who cares? Is this my reward for being a decent man who wants nothing more than to love somebody? I protested at the world, at God, at the sky, at whoever was listening. Is this just, that hollow, superficial people with their skin-deep feelings never taste of loneliness, but that I, because I am determined not to settle for cheap thrills and easy sex, should die alone? There was no answer.

The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11

Having expected this, I trudged slowly onto the stained cloth, tears gathering in my eyes. With a low, muffled sob I grabbed a canvas and placed it on an easel. At the time I had little clear idea of what I intended to do, I knew only the deep sorrow that had clouded over my soul, and the compulsion to seek comfort in the familiar my painting. At the conscious level, I had little awareness that my hand was grabbing paintbrushes, smoothing out canvas, squeezing out colors. But beneath the surface something stirred; it was longing, loneliness but most of all, love. To describe it as a feeling would be inaccurate, as love is not a feeling, it is more a context for existence, a frame of being. In that moment I loved loved what I did not yet know, what I did not understand. Such a powerful movement of the soul cannot remain within, it finds expression in whatever way it can. My longing, my loneliness, and my love found a paintbrush, and then they found color. And so it began. Or rather, she began. It would be a lie to say I designed her. I painted her, but something deep within me revoked logic and dictated my movements. The next several hours seemed to pass in a dream, a blurry rush of emotions and sensations. I watched in awe as my hand seemed to work on its own, and with more skill than I had, or ever will. Colors blended together flawlessly, brushstrokes entering into her gradually forming shape like breaths, seeming with each movement to bring her more and more to life. I have no exact knowledge of how long I stood there in a trance-like state, my brush flicking furiously over the canvas, crafting exquisite details more vivid and life-like than my imagination could produce. The portrait was quite large and unbelievably detailed, and my best guess was that it mustve taken at least six hours to paint.

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Finally I stood before the finished project, my body smeared in splotches of paint, and covered in sweat. I was held transfixed in amazement by my own, as my eyes surveyed the magnificent painting, while strange emotions danced within my stomach. I had never painted a portrait of a person before, and this one astounded me with the mastery of its brushstrokes which seemed far beyond my capabilities. There in the canvas was the shining face of a girl, her face framed by warm brunette tresses. Her skin was a sun-kissed off tan, and her bright cobalt eyes seemed to be looking directly into my own, and sparkle with an incredible depth of emotion. For a moment it seemed as if she were moving; I could almost see the long lashes bat, could she the nostrils move slightly with her steady breathing. I halfway expected her to step out of the flat plane she seemed too real for, coming forth into the depth of reality. Dont be silly, I mentally scolded myself, as I went to wash the paint off my hands, Shes just a painting- I mean its just a painting. The acrylic paint clung fiercely to the crevices and grooves of my fingers and hands, refusing to be coaxed off by the water as if insisting I not so casually discard it. Looking into the mirror, I discovered that I had smudged paint on my cheeks, forehead, and nearly every imaginable part of my body. Lacking the enthusiasm to clean myself up entirely, I settled for getting most of the hardened paint off my hands and face, and throwing my paint encrusted shirt and jeans unceremoniously in the hamper. Stretching and yawning, I came out into the spacious living room, which was more or less used for everything the bathroom was not, from painting, to sleeping, to eating. Weariness began to settle over me as I realized I had been working on the The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11 8

painting long into the night. Settling onto my cot with my quilt and pillow, I gently massaged my aching muscles and turned onto my side. The easel had been placed just right so that the girl seemed to be looking at me no matter where I found myself, and I noted in curiosity that I had painted her cupping a turtle within her hands. There were so many details I didnt remember painting in; so much that seemed not to have originated from my own creativity. Shrugging slightly, I rolled onto my back and settled in, allowing the darkness of the night to creep in at the edges of my blurred vision, and finally surrendering to sleep.

Rain patted down rhythmically on the top of my head, dribbling down my hair and cheeks to make its way to Earth. I walked along silently, doing my best to avoid stepping in puddles, but finding that most of the ground seemed to a two-inch deep ocean, with intermittent islands of relative dryness distributed into it. I crossed the crosswalk when a light changed to a figure of a man. In front of me, the streetlight flickered on and off, making the long shadows of the evening dance wildly across the cement. In the darkness, my flat seemed a bit more ominous than its usual cheerful appearance, but I ignored it, never having been one to be altered by lighting or weather. Stepping inside, I shook some of the excess water off of my jacket, smoothing back my hair as well. The floor was soon covered in miniature puddles that had dripped off of me, but I ignored them and ascended the stairwell. Apartment number five was mine, although in truth I had never once seen hide nor hair of the other residents of my building.

The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11

Astonishingly, my lock gave way the first time, my door swinging smoothly open. Raising an eyebrow at this seeming miracle, I shrugged and made my way in, shedding my jacket and leaving it hanging on the doorknob. The apartment appeared to be as I had left it, but within my gut I had the sinking suspicion that something was wrong or at least, different. Walking slowly about, my eyes flicked over my supplies and possessions, noting each ones presence in turn. Gasping slightly, I turned to where the painting had been. In its place, I found the easel tipped over where it had been, and the painting replaced with a blank canvas. My eyes wide in distress, I looked to the windows, imagining a shattered pane, a busted lock. To my astonishment, not only were my windows completely intact, but also I could see beams of sunlight beginning to pierce through the heavy clouds through them. Turning to my absent masterpiece, I ran my hands backwards through my hair in stupefaction, my mind turning upon the question of where it was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement to the side of the overturned easel, turning suddenly to face the intruder with a snarl. To my surprise, the perpetrator was nothing more than a small turtle, hobbling along behind the easel. Hey guy, how did you get in here? I asked as I scooped him up, cradling his tiny body within my hands. Maybe you belong to one of the neighbors? Although one not might to have a turtles undivided attention, the reptile seemed to be enraptured by something just behind me, and I turned in curiosity to see what he was looking at. My eyes were met by the sunny smile of a girl. Or, more accurately, the girl. The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11 10

She was looking back and forth between the turtle I held cupped within my hands, and my face, her expression inexplicably welcoming. So you like turtles too? she asked cheerfully, before grabbing the reptile from my grasp. Uh theyre alright- wait a minute, youre not real, I stuttered, not believing my eyes. She was precisely as she had appeared in the painting that I had done with my own hands, from her comically small frame to her soft cheeks and delicate, tiny fingers. Whereas the turtle had been dwarfed in my bear-like paws, she had to wrap her fingers around his shell in order to hold him. Well of course Im real, silly, she smiled, before cocking her head slightly to the side. Im here, arent I? Youre not one of those weird nothing is really real, people, are you? I sank down into my chair, blinking repeatedly as I looked at her, still hardly believing that this could be occurring. N-no, but youre not real because I painted you. Her sweet smile had not alleviated, and she seemed to have no reaction of disbelief to this statement. Well yes, you painted me, but I didnt like it very much in there. Its much better out here where I can be with you. She seemed so sincere and sweet despite the fact that her every utterance was a physical impossibility, and I found it difficult to hold up a faade of calm logic in the face of this glaring paradox. I-I appreciate that, but thats impossible. Paintings dont just come to life, I gasped, recalling the strange sensations I had experienced while creating the painting. The Artist and the Angel Conrad Neil, 9/13/11 11

No, not usually. But you should know by now that nothing is impossible, she chirped, coming to sit by me with the turtle still held in her grasp, Just highly improbable! I watched in silence and wonder as she placed the turtle gently on my leg, his beady black eyes staring up at me. He was surprisingly attractive for a reptilian creature, with brightly colored scales on the sides of his head and legs, and turquoise streaks on the top of his shell. She seemed to be incredibly fascinated by both myself and the turtle, petting him absently while she stared at me without seeming to know how strange such a turn of events was for me. Ive got it, Im being delusional. Ive been working too hard. You are not real, I stated definitively, although this seemed not to hurt her feelings or even occur to her as a sensible statement. Ill just go and splash some water in my face, and Ill come back, and youll be gone. She chuckled slightly at my exasperated expressions, as behind me I heard her melodic voice ring out. Alright, well make a deal. If Im not real, Ill disappear. But if I am, you owe me a date. I ignored this half chuckled remark as a part of the delusion, stomping into the bathroom. Turning on the water of the sink, I looked back out of the doorway one last time. She was sitting contentedly on my couch, looking at me with a bright and curious expression. I couldnt help but think to myself that even if she wasnt real, I almost wouldnt want it to end.

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Come on, youre being pathetic! Snap out of the hallucination, I told myself as I looked into the mirror and batted my face about slightly. It would be my luck that the only pretty, decent girl I ever meet would be a figment of my imagination. I hesitated slightly, my thoughts wandering to her soft smile and warm brown tresses, her light, melodic laughter. It was torture to think of it that she couldnt possibly be real. Closing my eyes in misery, I plunged my head under the stream of cold water, and watched in horror as everything around me washed away.

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