The artists easel

The empty wooden frame sits in the corner of the studio, cobwebbed and forgotten. The brushes, once meticulously cleaned after each use lie, bristled hardened to points by the old paint that has dried on them, the colours still bright against the dark brown of the fibres despite the passing weeks of neglect. The drop cloth spread on the floor waiting to receive rainbow splashes and drips from the frenzy of activity associated with each creative outpouring of emotion, unstained, crumpled, abandoned. The room, once full of vibrant life, colourful passion, expression, sound and fury, silent now, the dust motes in the air sparkling as they pass through the shafts of sunlight streaming through the picture windows, whilst outside in the street pedestrians, cars, bikes, buses pass as if this was any other week, any other time, as if this was normal.

The sun sets, and with it the room is transformed, bathed in a rich red glow, blood red, the colour matching the stain spread around the battered old armchair, his favourite chair, a relic of better times, salvaged from his flat before the repo-men took everything. Button backed, old leather and dark wood, a quality piece as so many of his belongings had been, but no more, the cost of fame so bright it burned too briefly, passing with the fashion, the artists too fixed, too rigid to change his style, too keep pace with the every changing demands of clients and dealers. The commissions dried up, just as the paint on the brushes has dried, just as the blood stains under the old chair have dried. Another day, another week, the door of the studio fails to open as, un-noticed, un-remarked the artists body stiffens and decomposes, rotting into the leather of the seat, as forgotten as the works which once made his name…