Canvas’ Journal

10th January 1788

I sat in the extreme right corner of the living room, overlooking the window and surrounded with the unsold works of my master. The palette was with still wet with paint and bristles of the fine brush were drenched. The man in the portrait adorned with jewels, wore a royal cape, and seemed notoriously weak for a King. His chubby face, flabby belly and white pants tightened around his bottom made me giggle. After my master’s momentary narcissistic admiration of his work, he spat bitterly and titled it Louis XVI, tax Lord. His wife entered after her daily work on the field and checked out his painting with noticeable ignorance. Although she despised the attention he gave me for his paintings never fetched enough to even buy seeds yet she regularly dusted my tripod, washed all his brushes and even scrubbed the palette.

27th June 1789

Every evening followed a long heated discussion between master and his wife. She asked him to get a better job to earn more than two meals a day as the yield was not enough and he retorted with his defenses of failed attempts at bakeries, salons, tailors etc. He finally got a job of distributing newspapers, namely, L’Ami du people. Both were famished by the end of the day and hoped for a better tomorrow. This cycle continued for weeks. One afternoon, master came in with a wide confident long forgotten smile on his face and his anxious wife hopped and hugged him. He said, “Now, things will be done our way, darling. We have waited too long.” They had a fulsome dinner that night. Before bed, he made a rough pencil sketch on me and the peace in his eyes and calmness in his grip felt comforting. The Tennis Court Oath, a new beginning, he named his new piece.

28th August 1789

I was covered with old issues of L’Ami du people for weeks. I was yearning the touch of the brush, dripping paints and smell of varnish. The wife gave me a generous dusting every night while she waited for master’s return. The field was barren and she barely ate. Her appetite for justice and equality was unfulfilled. One early morning, she woke up to the loud knock only to find master badly hurt in his left arm. She wasted no time in getting bandages, medicine, water, left over bread and fruits. She adoringly watched him eat and tell her his achievements. The eerie poise and contentment in his eyes while telling the deadly tale gave me shudders. In a few days, he embraced me, held the palette in his bandaged arm and his fingers began tickling me with the brush. He painted an intricate piece with the most gruesome details. A prison fortress, towering over Paris, The Bastille and rising dark clouds of smoke and flames, scattered cinders, thousands of enraged commoners with rakes and spikes, hundreds injured in open fire and a bleeding man’s head pierced and rose on a spike was being paraded boldly. Beheading de Launay, ‘Man has the right to deal with his oppressors by devouring their palpitating hearts.’

― Jean-Paul Marat

12th June 1791

Master sat with me for long hours after his dawn deliveries, musing about his next piece after he completed one. His work of a rebellion, near the palace, predominantly lead by women was his personal favorite and wasn’t sold. He also painted an unusually funny fat man with a red bonnet which HHe

andandnnmopfetched him enough to make dinner for his wife. She used to arrive at late hours and then spent rest of her awake hours dramatically narrating scenes of her day like a kid while master patiently listened. She talked about blackmailing bakers, injuring a few, taking on a soldier from behind (who wouldn’t retaliate because she was a woman) etc, like a piece of cake. Hearing them pondering on a perfect future and giggling in each other’s arms, made me blush. He was thrilled for their 16th wedding anniversary. He plucked flowers, lit candles, made dinner and gave me a modest dusting too. He waited for her return. He fell asleep on the dining table and woke up to the sound of La Marseillaise sung on streets. It was nine in the morning. His eyes were watering and he could only pray for well being.

30th December 1792

Master’s daily schedule was waking up before the sunrise, tilling the field, distributing newspapers, keeping one for himself from which he would cut and paste the articles of his interest. His latest articles were, ‘XVI loses to guillotine, a win for Jacobins’ ‘Prisoners open fired due to suspicion of rebellion’. His eyes were blank as he stared at the plethora of articles. He seldom used to paint and whenever he did he would callously use the brush, let the acrylic dry, spill water, and reuse frayed brushes. He would sprawl his legs, sit and stare hard at me for hours, as if asking me his unanswered questions. One night, his speechless conversation with me was interfered when someone barged in the door. It was her. She was back. Her clothes were of a garbage picker, soiled and torn. She was gaunt and her hair was cut up till ears’ length. Master tumbled on the stool, rushed towards her, and hugged her tightly. They kneeled in each other’s embrace and cried. Later in day, she told him how she was imprisoned for revolting and the only reason she was alive because she hid under the carcasses during the firing. Her story shook me to the core and the grotesque intricacies of the tortured prisoners made me look away and reflect on today’s humanity.

22nd August 1795

Master and his wife had a baby boy. I was delighted to see those chubby cute cheeks and innocent eyes. Master couldn’t get time with me because of his new responsibilities but watching him warm milk, changing diapers and taking delicate care of his wife and child filled my heart with joy. He would paint once a week for the press and was paid a generous amount. One of his famous artwork was a young man sitting on the throne with a royal red cape. His crown was generously jeweled, he firmly gripped the gold plated staff and his index finger had a big ruby. His eyes were sharp and his youthful spirit was perceivable. He gave the impression of a confident, sturdy and commanding man, sprawling his strong limbs. He named this work,

‘Napoleon -the Monarch?’