The Artwork of Oliver Blanche
Joe Rotondo
It began with Oliver Blanche. All of it.
Oliver is (or should I say was?) a childhood friend of mine, and perhaps the only person I felt I could ever place my trust in. I recall our meeting clearly: I had been around 10 or 11 at the time, and was reading a novel in the shady nook of a tree, when I felt a tap on my foot. Reluctantly looking up from the page, I was rather surprised by the sight of a short, pale boy with a general look of malnourishment. He stuck out his hand, introduced himself, and declared us to be blood-brothers on the spot. Paying no attention to my obvious confusion, he produced a small thumbtack and had pricked both his and my fingers before I could utter a word of protest. Taking my hand, he pushed my bloodied digit against his. Heaven knows how we remained such close companions after that.
Oliver was, quite plainly, as strange a person as one could ever hope to meet. I have always considered myself a man of hard substance, not given to occult fancies, and so over the years of our fellowship I have often been exasperated by my friend’s love of the macabre, particularly his obsession with gothic literature and gruesome aesthetics. His study of the “darkness which lurks in the heart of man,” as he liked to put it, led him at an early age to begin dressing in rather horrid attire- long black robes, obsidian-encrusted jewelry, and the like; no matter how often I encouraged him to dress in a plain pair of slacks and a button-down. He carried himself with utter somberness, and, on occasion, I found it difficult not to laugh aloud at his grave yet earnest demeanor when discussing such affairs as vampires, demons, and general matters concerning the undead. He would spend long hours doing so, surrounded by his various trinkets and artifacts, while I sat patiently across from him. Despite my boredom and incredulity, I found that humoring him was often my best course of action- for he was normally a quiet man, and seeing the deadly passion and poorly-hidden excitement with which he spoke of such matters brought a smile to my face.
Oliver refused to use electricity whenever possible, preferring instead to light his cramped abode with as many candles as he could safely manage. His eccentricity extended to his habits outside the house, and he often preferred to remain inside on pleasant days, stating plainly that he did not wish to get scorched (I would always scoff at this, because between his long robes, his black gloves, and his great, wide umbrella that he insisted on carrying whenever he left the house, there wasn’t an inch of his skin which was ever exposed to the sun in any case.)
Being a natural artist, my companion possessed a fiendish talent for drawing in intense detail. Often it was that I would call upon him at his flat and find him bent over his desk, obsessing over some small feature on one of his many, many canvasses. His work always revolved around that which he spent so much time discussing: creatures of the night, those macabre terrors which lurk in the minds of all of humanity. He was unmatched by any artist I had ever seen, and I often marveled at the intense livelihood of his creations. However, he often complained that his work was not dynamic enough, that there was only so much he could create while scribbling on plain paper. Eventually, it became clear to him that the only way to progress in his talents was to move to a different medium altogether. He told me this many times, and therefore I was relatively unsurprised when he took up work as a tattoo artist.
His work was slow starting out, and it seemed that his venture would fail. Oliver’s potential customers were turned off by his withdrawn nature and by the chilling realism of his work- for certain people, it seemed a little too real, to the point where patrons would refuse to have his designs inked on their bodies. I had become calloused to Oliver’s style, and though I found the subject matter unappealing, his art no longer affected me as much as it would an ordinary man. Because of this, I took to seeking out commissions on his behalf, carrying with me at all times one of his business cards (black, obviously) and a small pamphlet containing examples of his handiwork. I frequented bars and pubs in my surrounding area, and kept a sharp lookout for any person who seemed likely to appreciate my friend’s style. I was usually met with initial interest, which turned into stony-faced resistance when those I spoke with saw what designs were inside the pamphlet. My dogged efforts eventually succeeded in accomplishing nothing save for my banishment from the establishments I haunted, and I eventually ran out of locations in which to advertise.
My friend, in spite of my best efforts, grew despondent, and soon stopped drawing altogether. His choice in attire grew vastly more conservative (if imaginable), and soon I rarely saw him without a hood up over his head, his eyes glinting out. He never took off his gloves, and eventually the only part of his body I ever saw was a hint of his nose. His voice grew gradually quieter, and he began to walk with a slow, defeated traipse- far different than the purposeful stride I had known him for. He became even more of a recluse than he already was, and soon ceased reaching out to me.
Fearing the worst, I came to visit him and was shocked to see that the walls of his home were barren, stripped clean where they had formerly been lined with his work. Peering around the doorframe, I did not see Oliver anywhere, and deemed it necessary to seek him out. The house was rather small, and consisted of a sitting-room, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a bedroom which doubled as Oliver’s studio. I worked my way through each of these, and was relieved to open Oliver’s bedroom door and see him sitting at his work-station in the dingy corner. Seemingly every piece of his artwork in his household had been piled up next to him, and it was clear from the deep gashes in them that Oliver had wholly abandoned his calling. It was at that exact moment that I resolved, despite the inevitable discomfort it would cause, to provide my own body as a canvas. I could not bear to see the life-work of my closest friend go to waste, despite my misgivings about the subject matter, and if nobody else was willing to provide him with a blank slate, then I would.
I approached Oliver where he sat, slumped over his desk with his head laying upon his arms. Touching his shoulder, I roused him and explained to him that I wished to serve as his first client. His face shifted through a thousand expressions- joy, fear, anger (which mystified me), worry, and then finally back to neutrality. He rose from his seat, and gave me the first and last hug that I ever received from the man. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he looked straight into my eyes - indeed, into my soul - and asked me if I truly meant what I said. Fearing that backpedaling would result in the end of our friendship, I reaffirmed my statement, but added a pair of caveats: he was not to ink my skin in any place I did not approve, and he was to obey my wishes regarding the subject matter of the artwork. Oliver instantly agreed with my terms, and immediately sat back down at his desk with pen in hand, already scribbling away at the tracings which were to become one with my skin.
We agonized over every detail for what seemed like hours, certainly long into the night, but I did not begrudge my friend the time. We went back and forth on what was to be the design, with Oliver frequently making suggestions which I turned down due to their macabre nature. I eventually settled on the idea of a fearsome mountain-cat, as I had always admired their nobility and grace, while maintaining a healthy respect for their ghastly brutality. The next order of business was to determine the placement. Though I initially had my misgivings, I finally conceded to the inking of my back, on the basis that the large size of the working-area was offset by our rather chilly climate, meaning that the design would rarely be seen if I did not wish it.
Wanting to make up for lost time, Oliver and I agreed to begin the inking immediately, in the comfort of his home. I lay on my stomach on his kitchen table, and he sterilized his tools and set to work. The process was long and agonizing, and there were many times throughout I regretted my vow to my friend. What got me through the pain was this thought, and this thought alone: I kept telling myself that Oliver would do the same for me.
By the time the sun had crept over the horizon, and had bathed the kitchen in its deep red light, Oliver’s first work of the flesh was complete. I stood and winced, while Oliver fetched a looking-glass for me to observe the new addition to my body.
What I saw brought a shriek of horror to my lips, and I immediately smashed the mirror that Oliver held between his hands. The nightmare which had been carved into my skin was indescribable, and I fell to my knees at the thought that such a creation was conceived by one I had placed so much faith in, and now resided irreversibly on my body. Oliver looked on with glee as I knelt before him and sobbed at the monstrosity my back had become.
“Well? What do you think?” he cackled madly.
I looked up at his giddy face and let out a wail. “Goddamn you!” I cried. “What have you done to me? What have you done?”
Oliver responded with a grin. “My friend, when I saw what a wonderful canvas you made, I simply couldn’t resist! All my life, I have been searching for the perfect slate for my masterpiece, the ideal paper to portray what I have kept inside since the day of my birth. With you, I finally have begun to release my inner darkness, the blackness which lurks within us all! You should thank me, for there are none on this world who can lay claim to the horrors which are now part of you! This is just the beginning!”
I let out a scream, and fell to the floor in a faint.
When I awoke, it was nighttime again. I was in Oliver’s bed, but something was wrong. I could not seem to move my arms, nor my legs. Peering blearily down at my body, I saw with horror that Oliver had tied me to the mattress. While I was unconscious, my oldest friend had stripped me, and had set to work continuing his project. My skin, my precious, pure skin, was now a temple of horrors so indescribably gruesome, against the standards of all that was holy and good, that I could do nothing but shriek, and rave, and sob. In that moment, I finally realized why nobody had been willing to have Oliver’s artwork on their body. I forgot everything I had ever known, and the one emotion which filled my head was utter and complete terror. I prayed for death to come, to rid me of those images, to clear them from my body, to purify me. I was covered, from the top of my shaved head to my toes, in a mass of inky blackness, depicting the unimaginable. Every folly of mankind played itself out on my skin simultaneously, and beasts of indescribable horror were present amongst all of it. Hell itself had manifested on my flesh, and dear God, did it burn. I think I went mad that day.
When Oliver was finished with me, he released me from my bonds. I was too feeble with pain and horror to stand, so he dragged me to my darkened house and lay me in my bed. Standing over me, he giggled. “I really can’t thank you enough. You are now a part of something greater than yourself- indeed, greater than all of us. You are now the living embodiment of pure sin.”
I stared weakly up at him from where I lay, and I wept.