Page 40 - ES MAG 2018 dig

Red Sorrow by the chef himself. Between you and me, his incident, my friend was gone. She was buried
paintings looked more like platters, for the observers next to her wilted –ower, and devastation
by Evangelia Ivi Ioannou 4J to feed their eyes as they struggle to Œest their eyes surrounded the broken family’s empty void they
on the dish.‘The paints are his ingredients and the used to call a house.
canvas his plate’, my friend used to say. She spoke This aŽected the artist, who drowned himself in
Well, when I lay my eyes on him, I felt pity. Not so fondly and lovingly about her husband, and his studio and refused to do anything but paint.
because he lacked anything a woman would with such care, that one would believe he was One day, I visited to give him an invitation to a
want in a man, but rather because of all that I had the only seed in the garden of her heart. common friend’s party, which was to take place
accused him of in my thoughts of him. He was At least until the seed grew and became a tree soon. As I entered the house through the
made out of arsenic, and his eyes were two brightly and had a seed of its own. It was speciŒcally unlocked door, I was greeted by empty rooms and
green olives surrounded but bright orange paste, tainted with a blue pastel, accompanied by the white walls. It was as if the world was covered
all carefully and proportionally arranged in the smell of sea salt. And that seed grew, and turned in –our particles and refused to be cleaned. The
oval plate that made his face. Truth is, I felt jealous into a –ower. A –ower that never bloomed. He died furniture was gone, and the hallways were dark.
of my friend and how lucky she was. Not only to because of a cold. ‘His birthday was approaching’, Finally, after getting lost in the countless mazes
have met this man, but also for marrying him. my friend exclaimed, with tears upon her face. of empty vacuums, I reached the studio.
The moment she walked down the aisle, she Tears that were eating away her rosy cheeks, and ‘Greetings sir. I am here to-‘
looked like a princess. No. Like a queen. And the were engulŒng her in the way that tar eats away In diŽerence to the rest of the house, this room
jewels around her arms, neck and torso were the lungs, according to her husband, and with was full of clutter and pieces of wood, fabric and
almost as bright as her eyes. I forgot to mention her eyed turning from shiny copper into a shade lots and lots and lots of paintings. They looked
how rich her husband was. He was an artist who of brass which lacked lubricant and varnishing. like photographs to be exact, and they all had
painted with very rare paints. They were made ‘He was happy at least. He was often ill and tired, bright red backgrounds.
from materials beyond imagination: from rare and was suŽering greatly. At least now, he can ‘Greetings to you too my friend. Don’t be afraid!
corals which the sea had washed ashore to tru™e rest. His pain and suŽering has come to an end’, Come closer and observe my masterpiece!’
paste with the texture of wet sand immerged in I comforted her. Behind him I noticed a life size painting of the
warm sea foam. At the time, I didn’t help but ‘Yes, you are right’, she responded. dead family members. Their skins were glowing,
wonder what was weirder: the fact that he used The day of the funeral, I couldn’t help but question and the faint smell of egg whites grew as I
these ‘paints’ or the fact that he was able to Life’s motives. Why did she have to steal everything approached the ‘masterpiece’. What shook me,
aŽord and collect the ingredients? from my friend? And why did she have to send was that the faces were very...realistic.
Despite my personal opinion on the matter, her child away? My nephew’s skin was pale, but I Too realistic for comfort, really.
every single one of his paintings was considered couldn’t tell if it was an eŽect of death or a result ‘You shouldn’t have done that, my friend’ he
a masterpiece, and in newspapers, he was known of his chronic illness. He had anaemia. He murmured with an evil grin on his face. He
as ‘The God of Art’ or the Art itself. The artist would developed it when he was around Œve years old, approached me, and the last thing I remember,
always speak of his paintings with a mixture of and his condition kept getting worse. This also was falling on the ground unconscious. When I
ferocious passion and extreme and expressing aŽected my friend, who collapsed right after the woke, up I found myself in an empty room that
grace and delicacy. ‘The cheese was painted funeral. As I was waiting by the entrance of their looked like a prison cell. But I couldn’t stand up.
with goat cheese, vegetable oil and unsalted house, my friend was lying on her bed, pale and I was tired, and then, I heard the door creak.
butter. Then, using Œne brush strokes, I enveloped exhausted from her grief. She looked like a mother ‘Why am I here?’ I asked in disbelief.
it in egg whites. You might not be able to believe engulfed by sorrow when her son has died in ‘You should be proud. You will be a masterpiece
it, but they work quite well and are easy to Œnd. war. In war with his illness. As for her husband, my friend. I true masterpiece indeed’.
The di˜cult part is getting rid of the smell’. he was sitting by her side, or so he claimed. That moment everything turned blank.
Such descriptions reminded me of explicit culinary When the doctor arrived, he assigned the I am not jealous of my friend anymore.
38 dishes, created in the span of hours and presented appropriate medication, and one week after the I don’t envy her anymore.

Not Your Usual Sunset by Penelope Ioannou 7B

bench is no longer there then pull a chair and expecting a breeze that’ll ru™e palm tree leafs
place it right under those double rooted palm and tickle you with grains of sand. But I have to
trees at 40-degree angle from the sun. tell you that it comes in elevations and it’ll imitate
5:33 PM. That’s when the sun sets in Saint Lucia. the sea and leave ripples on your skin. It will feel
coarse and unattended and messy. Why are you
The thing is, if you’re expecting this sunset to scared of being messy? Tidiness is constant, it lacks
give you a semi circled sun so perfect it Œts right variability and versatility, and you can never truly
in the middle of your phone’s screen with a lose it. You can adopt the same tidiness every day
deluge of orange Œlling the sky, then –ip the for the rest of your life but you are tousled once and
page and chose another destination or get up never with the same symmetry again. When the
and leave because you won’t get that here. sun sets, sit on the beach. No not on a lounge chair,
The sun will set and it will go slowly and if you sit on the sand. Now you can take pictures of
I found a bench, yes the bench you see in the think sunsets are suppose to shimmer and dissolve yourself. It’ll be dark and your screen will be tinted
picture, which made me want to write and that as they leave for the day then Saint Lucia sunsets with a sepia mesh and you probably won’t get any
says a lot about it. Inspiration likes to change its will change your mind. The Œnal seconds of blaze good footage but take ten, take twenty pictures
tempo according to the –uctuations of my life and will hug you tighter than any lover has ever done and save all the obscure and the un–attering ones.
between indents of heart-breaks, job-promotions, before and the density and intensity of the light Save them, don’t delete them the next morning.
self-discoveries, fugitive moments of happiness and that will burst before disappearing completely
pages of books it likes to vary in abundance as well. will blind you more than any past attempt you’ve I’m writing this to you amongst the turbulence of
everyday routine and everyday reality and usually
But inspiration came willingly when I sat here, it made as a child to look directly up at the sun. when in such settings, I admittedly Œnd the dazzle
made the two ends of my bench feel like cliŽs I The back of your throat will taste like sea salt of my travels diminishing. If this has happen to
could jump oŽ of and it made my journal and light –ickers. Oh and it will leave you you, you know you’re not the only one. It is natural
desiccate like the texture I imagine clouds would hanging like those Œnal sounds that echo in the and above all it is human; we shower and wash
have. That doesn’t mean this place is for the night after a Œrework show, and it’ll be just away the verisimilitude of the experience, we
journalists, the writers or the artists exclusively; enough to leave an aftertaste. I promise. show the pictures we took to friends and dissolve
you’re wrong if you think those are the only the excitement and we give the place Œrst class
people in need of inspiration. Inspiration can be So don’t think of taking pictures, you’ll miss out seats in our thoughts until something tangible
the thought of your lovers cheek bones or the on pastel purple and light and life and you comes along and takes its place. I tell you this
thought of a much needed alcoholic drink, the should never miss out on those three things. because everything I’ve written above about Saint
thought of a sweet text or the thought of home, I took a picture, yes, and I wish I can go back Lucia is anything but ampliŒed and I can reassure
the thought of your bed sheets or the thought of there one day and relive that very moment myself that that is true as I’m writing this after my
yourself sitting on this bench, the thought of the without that intervention. But it’s part of my job trip and not during. This island managed to stick
smell of your car, the smell of the sea, the smell to pause and screenshot a frame out of such a its –are with surprising intensity in my heart and
of St Lucian oven baked plantains. moment, you, however, have no excuse. that is, in all honestly, the strongest persuasive
So please, when you go there, Œnd that bench, Be messy. Try to imitate all the ferment green you point can I think to give you.
yes, this exact bench. Just sit on it and if that see. Don’t be scared of the wind. I know you’re