The Ghost Painter

The light was white-hot, shimmering all around her, but paradoxically Adelaide Moran felt ice-cold.

            She seemed to be in a tunnel. Everything was indistinct, faraway yet somehow near. Her vision, so imperative to her success as a famous artist, had served her well until, at age ninety-eight, it had finally dimmed. Now she felt like a sleepwalker, reaching out in front of herself with long, skeletal fingers to find her way, half-blind.

            Suddenly a voice boomed through the light. “I’ve been expecting you. Welcome.” 

            “Who’s there?” she answered, confused. “Whoever you are, I want it understood that I am not staying. I am extremely busy. I must finish my masterpiece. After all, I am Adelaide Moran.” This was not at all where she wanted to be, with her masterpiece still unfinished, the artwork she was sure would make her even more famous. Yes, my masterpiece, she thought. It will be like no other painting ever created. 

            “I know, Addie. I’ve known you all your life,” said the voice. 

            She hesitated, her hands now dropping at her sides. “Look, whoever you are, I can’t stay. I must leave to finish my masterpiece.” 

            “It’s Adelaide Moran, Great Spirit,” boomed the voice. “She says she can’t stay. She must leave to finish her masterpiece.” The voice broke into laughter. 

            “To whom are you speaking?” Adelaide demanded, stamping her foot. The laughter ceased. Encouraged, she continued, “I need to speak to someone higher up than you, whoever you are.” She brushed an unbidden tear away from her eye with the back of her ice-cold hand. For heaven’s sake, she thought. 

            Then the realization struck her. Could this place be heaven? She shuddered at the thought, as, involuntarily, she found herself floating over a mass of fluffy clouds like ones she’d painted plein air in her landscapes of the Southwest. Soon she stopped and hovered in one spot. 

            She looked below her. There, in her bedroom, distraught by her bed, was Ramon, her faithful assistant. She thrilled at the sight of him, thinking how dark, handsome, and still young he appeared. Dear Ramon, she thought. He knew how much I wanted to finish painting my masterpiece and reach my goal of living to one hundred. 

            But who was that on the bed? Dismayed, she recognized the gaunt, shrunken features framed by silver hair. She tried to reassure herself that somehow, in this strange, new set of circumstances, she would be allowed to finish her masterpiece. For, after all, had she not worked hard to be recognized for her talents and given so much beauty to the world in her lifetime?

            Adelaide pulled herself up as straight as she could, spread her arms wide, and in as loud a tone as she could muster, pleaded, “Great Spirit, I must paint again. I must complete the masterpiece I was working on before this. It was going to be the pinnacle of my career. It is a large canvas, Belgian linen,still waiting to be worked on in my studio at La Semilla.” She waited for a response, but there was only silence and endless light. 

            She recalled how frustrating it had been to try to paint with her eyesight failing and how she’d tried to direct Ramon to help with applying colors. Already a bright cerulean blue had been blended with some titanium white for the sky in an area two inches from the top of the six-foot-high canvas.

            Ruminating thus in the fogs of heaven, Adelaide was suddenly seized with an exciting idea. Why not have people in her masterpiece, as if they were on a stage set? She shivered with delight at the thought. If I do manage to finish the masterpiece, and I will … it will be like none I’m known for. It will be animated!

            She recalled how, one day at her studio in La Semilla, New Mexico, Ramon had shown her a video of art works from the most famous attraction at the annual Festival of Arts in Laguna Beach, California—the Pageant of the Masters. Now, clasping her bony hands together with renewed glee, she remembered seeing, on the festival’s stage, live people posing like statues to create tableaus for the audience to view. Then the lights would dim and come up again to reveal a different tableau. Realizing she might be able to create a painting that would go a step further than the tableaus of the festival, she had wondered if a painting could actually appear animated to the viewer. Why couldn’t the subject matter be experienced as real so that breezes could be felt, sounds could be heard, and viewers could interact with any people portrayed? Why not? 

            She recalled Ramon speculating, “If this could be done, the experience would last as long as viewers wanted to be engaged with the artwork, after which it would become static again.” Ramon is a genius, thought Adelaide. But so am I! Such a masterpiece would assure me a significant place in art history, putting me way ahead of my nemesis, Georgia O’Keeffe.

            Adelaide started walking toward what she perceived to be the end of the tunnel, squinting, with hands outstretched. We’ll need help with the figures, she mused. I can’t see like I used to, and figures never were my forte. She felt sure she could direct things on Earth, using the shamanic guidance available in New Mexico. What I need, she thought, is a talented young woman artist whose soul I can “borrow” for a time to paint like me. She knew she would need Ramon’s help in finding such a woman. 

            She raised her arms, embracing the light, which was now like that of a primed linen canvas awaiting the touch of genius. “Can you hear me, Ramon?” she called, her scratchy voice reverberating throughout the bright mists.