optical illusion was startling. The false window appeared so real it seemed as though it would open onto the woods outside. In the National Gallery I’d seen trompe l’oeil paintings, where the artist fools you into thinking there’s a fold of cloth draped across the canvas, or a hidden door embedded in the painting itself.
But I’d never seen anything like that in real life. I pressed my palm against the wall, the stone warm and rough, slightly porous; ran my hand across it to clear away dust and cobwebs. I pulled out my can of spray paint, shook it, and pointed the nozzle at the wall, drawing a yellow arabesque and rayed eye. I signed my tag, set the can on the floor, and stepped back, staring at the image.
Then I reached into my pocket and removed the flannel-wrapped bundle I’d brought from Perry Street. Slowly I unrolled it on the floor. I surveyed the oil pencils, finally picked up the black crayon. I made certain the spray paint had dried, then traced the
A
s in RADIANT DAYS in black, the
I
in Alizarin crimson; picked up the Moorish red crayon and outlined the sun’s eye, overlaid this with cobalt so that the colors bled together and a supernaturally brilliant violet eye stared back at me.
I paused, then grabbed the Alizarin crayon and drew first one arc and then another above the blazing words. I thought of Clea and the portraits on the walls of Perry Street: all those paintingsthat no one would ever see. It seemed right that they’d be obliterated by a wrecking ball.
And suddenly I wished I could destroy those other drawings, all the ones that Clea had taken. Rage fueled me, and fear; loneliness and longing and a perverse exhilaration: because I was here, alone, with no one to see what I drew, no one to judge; no one to critique it or claim it.
I drew as though this might be the last time I’d ever have the chance. I drew for what seemed like hours, the room illuminated by a strange fitful light that seemed to pulse from the words RADIANT DAYS , yellow and onyx and crimson. I heard branches tap against the roof, smelled rust and rain. The ache in my head slowed to the rhythm of my heartbeat and the dreamy sweep of crayon against stone. Only when it finally grew too dim to see did I stop.
In front of me was a whorl of black and red, emerald vines and orange flame, a shifting wheel of shadowy forms like those cave paintings drawn in charcoal and ocher and yellow clay. As I stared, shapes began to emerge from the swirl of color, shapes I’d been only half aware of as my hand moved across the stone: eyes and faces, a hand. Willow leaves and wings, dragonflies and hawk moths.
The longer I looked, the more I saw. Waves, a curve that marked the bend of a river. A crescent moon that was also a boat. The whorl of images seemed to turn, a hurricane brought to life, and the illusion of motion drew my gaze tothe center of the painting, where the rayed eye rose from a fiery sea. I reached to touch the center of the eye, and with a cry snatched my hand back.
The stone wall was hot—not sun-warmed, but
hot
. I hesitated, then held my palm a scant inch from the stone.
I wasn’t imagining it. The section I’d painted was noticeably warmer than the rest. The center, where the sun was, radiated as much heat as an incandescent lightbulb. Gingerly I touched the eye.
“Shit!”
The wall had
burned
me. My fingertip felt blistered, but the skin was unmarked, not even red. Once more I drew my palm toward the wall. This time it was cool.
I touched the sun-eye: dead cold.
I stepped away and absently thrust my hand into my pocket. A sharp pain shot through my thumb. I yanked my hand out and saw the fish-bone key dangling from it. A silver prong was embedded in the ball of my thumb. Carefully I pulled it out, then replaced the key.
Blood welled from the puncture wound. I turned and pressed my hand against the wall, covering the image of the sun rising from the waves. When I withdrew my hand, a red smear like the imprint
But I’d never seen anything like that in real life. I pressed my palm against the wall, the stone warm and rough, slightly porous; ran my hand across it to clear away dust and cobwebs. I pulled out my can of spray paint, shook it, and pointed the nozzle at the wall, drawing a yellow arabesque and rayed eye. I signed my tag, set the can on the floor, and stepped back, staring at the image.
Then I reached into my pocket and removed the flannel-wrapped bundle I’d brought from Perry Street. Slowly I unrolled it on the floor. I surveyed the oil pencils, finally picked up the black crayon. I made certain the spray paint had dried, then traced the
A
s in RADIANT DAYS in black, the
I
in Alizarin crimson; picked up the Moorish red crayon and outlined the sun’s eye, overlaid this with cobalt so that the colors bled together and a supernaturally brilliant violet eye stared back at me.
I paused, then grabbed the Alizarin crayon and drew first one arc and then another above the blazing words. I thought of Clea and the portraits on the walls of Perry Street: all those paintingsthat no one would ever see. It seemed right that they’d be obliterated by a wrecking ball.
And suddenly I wished I could destroy those other drawings, all the ones that Clea had taken. Rage fueled me, and fear; loneliness and longing and a perverse exhilaration: because I was here, alone, with no one to see what I drew, no one to judge; no one to critique it or claim it.
I drew as though this might be the last time I’d ever have the chance. I drew for what seemed like hours, the room illuminated by a strange fitful light that seemed to pulse from the words RADIANT DAYS , yellow and onyx and crimson. I heard branches tap against the roof, smelled rust and rain. The ache in my head slowed to the rhythm of my heartbeat and the dreamy sweep of crayon against stone. Only when it finally grew too dim to see did I stop.
In front of me was a whorl of black and red, emerald vines and orange flame, a shifting wheel of shadowy forms like those cave paintings drawn in charcoal and ocher and yellow clay. As I stared, shapes began to emerge from the swirl of color, shapes I’d been only half aware of as my hand moved across the stone: eyes and faces, a hand. Willow leaves and wings, dragonflies and hawk moths.
The longer I looked, the more I saw. Waves, a curve that marked the bend of a river. A crescent moon that was also a boat. The whorl of images seemed to turn, a hurricane brought to life, and the illusion of motion drew my gaze tothe center of the painting, where the rayed eye rose from a fiery sea. I reached to touch the center of the eye, and with a cry snatched my hand back.
The stone wall was hot—not sun-warmed, but
hot
. I hesitated, then held my palm a scant inch from the stone.
I wasn’t imagining it. The section I’d painted was noticeably warmer than the rest. The center, where the sun was, radiated as much heat as an incandescent lightbulb. Gingerly I touched the eye.
“Shit!”
The wall had
burned
me. My fingertip felt blistered, but the skin was unmarked, not even red. Once more I drew my palm toward the wall. This time it was cool.
I touched the sun-eye: dead cold.
I stepped away and absently thrust my hand into my pocket. A sharp pain shot through my thumb. I yanked my hand out and saw the fish-bone key dangling from it. A silver prong was embedded in the ball of my thumb. Carefully I pulled it out, then replaced the key.
Blood welled from the puncture wound. I turned and pressed my hand against the wall, covering the image of the sun rising from the waves. When I withdrew my hand, a red smear like the imprint
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