Sunflowers by Marco Etheridge

Sunflowers surround me. Thousands of golden faces stare past me, oblivious to my presence. A solitary human being holds no meaning for them. Their only concern is the great orb of the sun tracking across the August sky behind me. I orient myself to the sunflowers in the same manner they orient to the sun.

Two stony paths quarter the fields, dividing the sunflowers into quadrants. One path runs east to west, the other north to south. My canvas chair marks their intersection, facing due south. At this time of the season, the sunflowers require no tending. No farmers will disturb my solitary reverie.

No easel stands before my chair. I will not paint today. Tomorrow perhaps, if Theo’s package arrives. Or the next. The café painting took the last of my cadmium yellow.

I cannot abide my room and the drying canvases. Better here in the fields, even without my paints and brushes. The fire burns inside, as always, but for today at least, I endure the desire. I will not play at charcoals. My heart tells me the grand sunflowers will resent any attempt to render them in black lines on white paper. Without the oils, what would be the point?

As I ruminate, my shadow creeps to the left. The sunflowers revolve right in minute increments, following the passage of the sun. I rise from my chair, lift it from the ground, and rotate it ever so slightly until its cast shadow is perfectly square. I must do manually what the sunflowers do by nature. Such clumsy creatures we humans are.

A flight of crows crosses the sky to the south, a diagonal row of inverted chevrons. I see them on the canvas, black with a touch of viridian, applied in impasto with a palette knife. Two quick rising strokes. And the sky behind them ultramarine over a ground coat of cobalt blue and a touch of white.

Beneath the sky, a verdant wall topped with a thousand sunflowers. Emerald and viridian for the forest of sturdy stalks and leaves. Cadmium yellow and earth ochre for the staring blossoms. Thousands of yellow eyes.

I reach for my bag. Mademoiselle has packed a half-bottle of red wine, along with cheese and bread. The wine is warm and the cheese soft. I take my repast while the sunflowers turn, and my shadow lengthens.

Standing once again, I repack my satchel and reorient my chair. Now I face the wall of sunflowers directly in front of me while the southern path runs off at an angle of perhaps twenty degrees. Yes, a detail to consider.

How many blank canvases are in my room? Not enough. I must ask Theo to send more, and quickly.

The light begins to fade as the shadows grow long. I rise from my canvas chair and slip the satchel over my shoulder. The chair creaks as I fold it. I bid the sunflowers adieu and take the southern path, which leads to the town.

Sunflowers surround me, their heavy golden faces leaning over the verges of the dust-white path. Perhaps Theo’s package will arrive tomorrow. Then I will return.