CAFE: WINE BAR • SPIRITS

By Alexis Halloran

Since young, inanimate objects have manifested before me with mystical imaginations. I can still recall staring at the popcorn ceiling as a child, telling tales from the hidden shifting shapes above. Like others see pictures in moving clouds, I added personification to anxious angled head lights on a car or British narration to a dapper looking doberman. It would be a lie to say I don’t still dabble in this nostalgic amusement every once in a while. Perhaps its my rampant creativity or maybe my mind is finally splitting. Whichever it might be, I’m grateful for the simple entertainments in boredom, and the spark of youthful exuberance it brings back to me.

Even now my curiosity becomes a landscape of fiction when I gaze on a fresh piece of art. As each feature unveils itself, a single still painting can tell a world of stories. It always intrigues me to know which tales others can cultivate from the very same details and pigments. These thoughts strike as I stare into the glass pane, which might as well have been a television screen for all I can see.

In a silver frame and red striped boarder, a painting of an elegantly black clad couple face away in their seats, sharing glasses of crimson red. They look out the vast windows, etched from the exterior with “CAFE” along the top and “• WINE BAR • SPIRITS •” cut off along the bottom. The body of the white collared gentlemen faces the outside world, and though he leans into her, it seems his attention holds focus beyond the glass. Her figure however is pointed to him, while her head cocks in a manner of having reluctantly stollen a glance away. Bright rays reflecting from the white sky obscure outside the window, as a stark contrast to the ruby chairs and dark clothed observers within.

Though her eyes were hidden, the woman’s posture was directed between the Hausmannian style buildings. To the far crosswalk near the old-fashioned, three arm, lamp post there were two hazy shapes. Much was blurred by the blinding overcast and shimmering rain, but in that moment she saw more clearly than ever. I imagined she watched enviously as an elder couple toured unfamiliar avenues.

The gentleman next to her may have fretted over her attention to the pair, insinuating she sought a life that lacked fervour. On the contrary she was drawn to the peace of their settle lives, because she too wished to be so greatly established, she could leave the confines of that toiling city. The old pair must have cultivated a family and laboured for an escape from the monotonous routines of life. Wine nights were supposed to be her break from the hustle and bustle, to unwind from her day in a city that never ceased. But that deep yearning had not wained, for an escape from the eternal chaos of working to a means. From so far, one could see their romance had foundation and design built on years of resolve; yet she felt so weak in her bond from mere inches away. In a metropolis based solely on the concept of Love, she could not have felt further from it.

To the frame’s opposite, the mans concerns were a far different perspective. Gliding in from the left window was a white vintage Rolls-Royce. Although her assumption may have been his attraction to wealth, the fantasy was actually more vivid than this. See, his aspirations were rooted in a purpose: to make a name of himself. That desire had been a cultivation longer than even he knew, following decades of torment as a born-loser. His past only lit the fire beneath, in craving a freedom to hone his skills yet unknown. In his dreams he refined his inventions, and earned a financial release from the slaving society of corporate demand. In that world he would chose a different way of living, one far from the cyclic patterns of a toiling city. That car, the greatest symbol of hardwork and wealth, was an escape for him from his insignificant existence. How contradictory, he thought, that the woman he wished to love would surrender such fantasies for a life of simplicity.

One other important perspective is missed by the seemingly unhappy couple. A character still lies behind the frame, the only whom can grasp the scene for what it truly is. The painter. They have a surreal understanding because with every brush and stroke of the image the artist is brought closer to that present moment.

The two characters seem to physically lean into one another craving more, yet their desires draw them miles apart. What they do not realize, in their resentment and fancy for something other, is that they are not so different. Both assume the other lacks similar fervour, for a fulfilling or easeful life, yet it is this powerful passion which drives them apart. The couple already have foundations in shape, both seeking success leading to freedom for him and ease for her; neither of which should exist without the other. They have unspoken desires aligned at heart, but do not share them. Instead they resign to defeated silence and think themselves incapable of prosperity. So they sit in dissatisfaction, assuming the other cannot offer what they so desire, yet what they yearn for is entirely the same.

Suddenly my adored partner drew me away from my imaginations playfully, “what’ch ya doin’?” I explained to him the situation of how a single picture told thousands of stories in the eyes of others. My rendition poured forth with the cadence of a practiced writer and he seemed inspired. So I pried, “what do you see in the painting?” He looked thoughtfully onto the image and I could almost see it unfolding on the film of his eyes.

He is a hitman. His missions? The few who know, do not live to tell the tale. Even the woman in his company only knows they await a new target. Who or what remains an uncertainty. But they continue to scan their surroundings, from the suspicious bodies hovering only a block away, to the vehicles fleeting by. Exposed in broad daylight, eyes could penetrate every window and threats loomed around each unseen turn. Neighbours could not even be trusted, the very woman at his side might have been a double agent for the little he knew. And all at once her innocent batting eyes revealed a flash of betrayal. The entry bells signifying their visitor sent a chilling breeze through the cafe. Yet the customers in their nigh did not seem to shudder at the suspense of an impending war.

I snapped a picture, for all to see, of what would become one of my most beloved paintings. Later I showed a dear friend, asking for one more of the many tales untold. Her face scanned the image with rascally wonder searching for a more unique concept than already explored. Finally settling on the foreboding bodies in the distance, she stated as an tantalizing matter of fact, “zombies.”

So, what do you see in the painting?

Portrait by Brent Heighton, "After Hours".

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