The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #33

 Atelier n°5

The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #33

One Picture

One Element

One Emotion

200 Words

An artist old workshop


A Newborn Baby

Please add your story in the comments below.


9 thoughts on “The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #33

  1. Daryl had a fascination with body parts. Now, before you switch off and go do something else, the body parts in question belonged to new born babies. Hah! That got your attention. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Daryl’s fascination was in little curled toes, fingers. To draw from nature, Daryl’s heart would soar.

    His art students regarded him as an exceptional and exact technician of his work. Regarded him as a bit weird too. Unlike the other teachers, he never found himself invited for coffee and chat.

    Daryl had a secret. A life outwith college. A life that included a wife. As the students said later, Who knew?

    The wife worked in maternity, her husband offering a personal and loving service to parents. The births captured in charcoal or resin. Footprints, hand prints, ear prints. Touchingly, the still-birthed were just as cherished. The very special mementoes for a grieving parent, grandparent.

    Some years on, The Herald carried notice of Daryl’s passing. It talked of a man of passion and compassion, who regularly donated to baby charities. An exhibition of his work was put on by the college. Parents whose children had been immortalised, lent pictures, photos. Donations at the door for Daryl’s favourite charities.

  2. Artistic ideal

    Just any nude was no longer enough. The more she concentrated on her subjects, the more she noticed the imbalance of colours, blemishes, the asymmetry and texture of skin and bone. Subjects came and went, each more grotesque than the ones before. Her fascination for perfection and absolute beauty finally drew her closer to her own artistic ideal. She no longer cared for society’s norms or expectations, her subjects growing younger and younger, her reputation preceding her. Some were plucked from the street, while others found her.
    This time, however, she was sure she’d found perfection. With every stroke of the brush her canvas came to life, the smooth texture, the facial symmetry and glowing colours, the roundness of…
    “This is the Police! Open the door!”
    The shout shook her from her dream.
    “Open the door! Please!” screamed a frightened woman.
    She paused and looked over at her subject. A newborn baby girl was sitting quite still on the background setting of a long flowing piece of white silk.
    “Madam! Please open the door or we shall have to force our way in!”
    She dropped her palette, the paints mingling together on the wooden floor.
    “Oh, what have I done…”

  3. He stood in the doorway and looked at his studio. It was a mess.
    Behind him, his newborn son began to cry and he hesitated before he turned to pick him up.
    His art had to take second place now, even though that was his passion and the way to earn money and fame. He couldn’t believe his wife had picked this moment to become fascinated with horses and was off riding somewhere in the bush with a friend.
    She had fallen into a hole of hopelessness after the birth, and seemed to have no connection with her child – as if he didn’t even exist.
    A friend explained that it was often the shock to the body and the change of lifestyle that caused a post-natal depression, and his wife had turned to horses as her focus.
    “She’ll come good,” the friend had assured him.
    He sighed, but picked up the baby and felt the surge of love in his heart. His art could wait.
    He fervently hoped that his wife would feel the same soon.

  4. The Interview

    “My ‘atelier’? I designed it myself. I can put things where I want and always find them again. I can be half way through a painting, abandon it and, when inspiration hits, pick up where I was before. I can have lots of projects on the go.

    “Selfish? You bet.

    “I met a woman who couldn’t care less about material things. We moved out into the woods where I constructed this wonderful building with perfect light for my studio (north-facing roof windows) and living accommodation on the mezzanine.

    “Perfect…until little Skylight was born.

    “Yes, named after my brilliant natural lighting.

    “Suddenly, my visual world was penetrated by the wails of a newborn. Sorry, but it was noise pollution, pure and simple.

    “How did I fix it?

    “I brought her downstairs, cleared off one of my workbenches and got back to work. That baby was fascinated by the colours, or the sweep of my brushes or maybe the intensity of my concentration. She was painting before she was two. We shared this studio until she got her own.

    “The rest is history.

    “Incidentally, if you like Skylight’s work so much despite the horrendous prices she charges, you wouldn’t be interested in a painting by her father, would you?”

  5. (I can’t seem to find the French lettering for this title; sorry)

    Piece de Resistance

    At first it was more blue than anything else. Blue with a kind of white coating that washed off fairly easily. As the minutes ticked by, the blue color gave way to more of a rosy pick; everyone commented that the pink color was “healthy”, and they all were pleased it had so much hair on its head.

    Its eyes were closed, and its face was all scrunched up; well, until its mother snuggled it in to her breast and began to feed it the loveliest warm liquid food; then its whole body seemed to relax as it suckled and nestled into her warm, silky-smooth skin.

    The tiny, fragile fingers opened and closed; first gripping then releasing, as it explored the will given it to command the fingers. They were so delicate, those ten little fingers. It was scarcely possible to envision that those same fingers would one day become large and powerful; like his father’s .

    Watching this scene unfold, the master painter stood before the canvass of His latest creation in glowing fascination at the piece He had just finished. Setting His pallet aside and stepping back a few paces, the Creator God spoke, “Surely this is the finest thing I have ever made.” And He loved the tiny, new human person.

  6. A storm rages in the artist’s workshop. He slings paint with flicks of the wrist and arcing slashes of the arm. The oils splash on the canvas with violent passion. The physical act of his painting mirrors the blitzkrieg crashes of thunder and flashes of lightning belonging to the storm raging outside of the workshop.

    In another room a still life, created by a flashbulb blast of lightning, reveals an empty crib, a changing table without supplies, and a row of pristine stuffed animals. Darkness again swallows the vacant nursery as deep rolling thunder rattles bottles left untouched by milk.

    The artist continues his barrage upon the canvas far into the night, until the storm wanes, and solemn silence at last sets in. Exhausted, he stumbles over to a chair and collapses into it. From a table next to the chair he retrieves a decanter.

    Taking a long, hot swallow of whiskey, he appraises the canvas across the room. He is fascinated by the macabre beauty created by the destruction of the previous work. Beneath the angry slashes of red and wild streaks of black, lies the portrait of his wife and their newborn baby boy, lost to him forever.

  7. The Baby
    Danielle Lee Zwissler
    Jessica painted nearly every day, mostly seascapes, and sometimes abstracts, but never portraits.
    She had never been fascinated by the human body, more aptly disgusted. But when she saw the baby, she knew she had to paint it. It was in a grocery cart as its mom pushed it around the store, planting different items in the basket as she made her way through. Jessica couldn’t help but stare. She didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. There were no pinks, no blues only yellow… just yellow.
    And the baby was gorgeous.
    Call it whatever you like, the fact that she was single, that her clock was ticking, or maybe she felt the need for something new, but she wanted to create something, something magical.
    That night, in her mind, she pictured the child. She went to her studio, pulled out a long roll of canvas and poised her brush on its surface. She painted, and painted, and did it all from memory.
    And it was perfect.

Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.