She lived like fire, everything she touched turned into a bright blaze.
There was no stopping her of course, though there were many that made that mistake. When she put her heart into something it was as if the universe didn’t exist. It was only her and what she needed to do. I would spend many nights watching her work, admiring the brushstrokes on the canvas.
The energy that radiated from her was a wild force, it wouldn’t be kept silent and she didn’t bother trying to hide it. It leaked through her every movement no matter how small and inconsequential. She inspired others with that energy. Some nights I think she could have taken over the world if she wanted to.
Let me go back to the start.
I met Leonora 2 years ago. I was then and now, a struggling artist, trying to find inspiration wherever I went. She was already a big name in the painting scene with many exhibits under her belt.
We bonded over smoke clouds and failed expectations.
I’d like to think that’s when we became friends. Every week after that I would go to her studio and try to learn what I could from her.
I realized too late that you couldn’t learn what she had.
One night, a few months ago, I was with her while she was working on her latest piece. It was entitled ‘A slow dance of red’. It was a landscape piece, unusual for her to do, but she said she wanted to remember the mountains of her childhood home.
She was from Kiokong, Bukidnon, a place that I’ve never been, and a place I know all too well. It was through her paintings that I was able to glimpse the rugged beauty of the rock walls and the rivers they stood guard over.
She would always ask me if it looked right and I had to remind her that it was her home and not mine that she was painting, though, looking back, I don’t think the question was directed at me.
Those were happier times.
I don’t know what to say about what happened. It was a shock to everyone, especially those closest to her.
We all knew she had her own demons to fight, and all of us let her know that we would be there if she ever stumbled.
But she never asked.
I… I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone that gathered to remember Leonora. She had a place in all our hearts and it will only grow now that she’s gone.
As I look over the faces here, some familiar and some strangers to me, I can’t help but think of the way Leonora would have wanted to paint this. She the rare talent of capturing the essence of emotion in a few strokes of paint.
A few… beautiful…. Strokes…. I… I can’t do this.
It’s all wrong.
Leonora didn’t die from an overdose.
She tried to tell us what she was going through, through her paintings, but we were too stubborn to listen.
Look at her final works. The clawed hands, the pointed teeth, the long tongue. It was all there.
And she tried to stop it.
She told me it listened for the sounds of death, maybe that’s why she spent so much time in the cemetery. We all brushed it off as an artistic peculiarity, after all we can’t judge where artists get their inspiration from.
Oh God… if only we had listened.
Look for yourselves! There’s nothing in the coffin!
No trace of her anywhere. They said her body was lost at the morgue, but now I know better.
It was that…. thing that did this.
Her last wish was that her body be washed with vinegar.
No one did the request. It was too strange. We thought it was a joke.
Now no one’s laughing.
Leonora I’m sorry. I should have listened. We all should have listened. The fault is not mine alone. We couldn’t see past the artist in you and now look what happened, watching over an empty coffin hoping that our prayers would be lifted to you.
But prayer can’t help us anymore.
I beg all of you gathered here to remember her last works. Look for yourselves what she was fighting against.
Go back to your homes and dream of her.
That’s the least we can do.
Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza
Illustration by Edson Espiritu
IG: @blackink.es
Inspired by the busaw/buso description in Creatures of Philippine Lower Mythology. Ramos. 1971.
