Katarina Bogojevic

Honorable Mention: Fiction

“The Red Canvas” 
by Katarina Bogojevic
12th grade, Summit High School

—

It was raining again. London had this quiet way of washing itself gray. Elise sat almost motionless on the hardwood floors of her tiny flat, eyeing the stack of untouched canvases next to her. No buyers, no press, no callbacks; only silence, sporadically broken by patters on the window from a sky that seemed to cry on her behalf. Around her, brushes lay in still water, slowly absorbing the murky brown residue from paint left untouched for days. Half-finished pieces lined the blank walls, screaming to be seen. None of them had been—not even by Elise, who was too desperate to hear them beg. 

The invitation collected dust on the windowsill, an envelope embroidered with ivory lettering: Red: An Exhibition by Linda Elwood. She and Linda had once painted side by side, treating the sunlit studio above London’s most famous café as their sanctuary. She remembered Linda’s vivacious laughter through messy brushstrokes, her blond curls always held by an old paintbrush. Linda was now a name, a brand, and a presence Elise deemed too good for her company.

Hesitantly, Elise arrived just before evening, her eyes captivated by the impossibly white floors and red carpeted walkways. Voices floated over clinks of wineglasses, the soft murmur of guests almost swallowing her. A sudden sliver of jealousy crept through her spine, closing around her throat. It was an exhibit she and Linda had only dreamed about, their talks of creating an exquisite gallery encompassed by a susurrus of chatter hanging over her like a deadweight. Something “so fascinating but so incomprehensible.” It was Linda’s famous line, now inspiring her famous gallery and title—one that Elise had no part in. She stood by the doorway longer than intended, digging her fingernails into her cashmere jacket. She had chosen her outfit with purpose, hoping it would make her appear worthy of recognition.

Elise took her first step toward the Red exhibit; her black ballet flats pressing into the soft crimson carpet. Her darting brown eyes rested briefly on the canvases surrounding her. Unsure which was Linda’s, she followed the low buzzing of people toward the hallway’s end. A slow current of bodies circled the area, drawn like moths to a canvas Elise could not see. She slipped between clusters of opulent people until the crowd parted, revealing the centerpiece everyone was so captivated by.

It was red.

Just red.

A single, immense canvas drenched in one unpleasing, uniform shade of angry crimson. No gradient. No texture. No brushstrokes at all. Just red.

Elise stared blankly, blinking hard to rid the sensation stinging her waterline.

This was it?

Murmurs behind her pierced the ringing in her brain, pulling her back to the hollow gallery space. “So creative.” “Striking.” Elise swallowed something sharp. An acidic taste flooded her mouth, burning a deep hole in her stomach; envy and disbelief tangled too tightly in her throat to explain. 

What were they looking at?

No crashing wave on delicate beach sands, layered with thirty-seven shades of cobalt to mimic longing’s weight. No aching skyline split with flocks of starlings against gradient sunsets. No effort, no passion, no heartache she breathed into tiny canvases now collecting dust in her flat. Just red.

“Elise?”

Her voice was softer than Elise remembered. She turned, barely registering the blur of white light before arms wrapped tightly around her. Linda’s curls brushed her cheek, still held together by that same old paintbrush. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Linda whispered into her ear, her voice thick and warm like nectar. Attempting to reply, Elise merely nodded. Her voice refused to come. Linda pulled back, a true smile plastered upon her face, but her eyes moved quickly, already somewhere else.

“We should catch up.” Another squeeze, and just like that, she was gone, swept into a crowd that instantly pulsed around her. Elise found it hard to move. She just stood there, flats melting into the floor, while the room carried on without her.

The taxi came within a minute. Her sleek, hardwood floors once again brushed against her frail, long legs, a texture she always preferred over a traditional seat. The rain had paused, but the city lights still bled through her windows, warping shadows of red across the wood. Elise peeled off her coat, staring intently at the canvases crowding her walls; the same ones pleading for attention, adoration, anything. 

Then she lost it.

Coats of fresh, thick oil paint splattered across old, withering strokes. Violets blended into deep yellows, whites drowned in thick black. She threw the last bit of crimson squeezed from the bottle across meticulously perfected cityscapes, watching it spread like a wound, consuming every detail it touched. Her fingers trembled. Her chest heaved, breathing in sharp pieces of fury that pricked where it hurt most. 

In the pearlescence of a sudden sunlight bouncing onto the canvas, there was stillness. She studied the mess. Her mess. A disordered symphony of color and emotion no longer needing to make sense. Her breath slowed, eyes tracing untamed curves and sharp edges wrought in frustration. It was no longer about perfect brushstrokes or a silent yearning of approval. It was something unspeakable, something profound. The pain, desperation, all laid out in streaks of scarlet and bruised purple. Elise saw it, the strange beauty beneath the chaos, a confession painted not with technique, but true depth.

Her mind wandered back to Linda’s gallery, the enormous red canvas that had cut through every foundation her career was built upon. It was not emptiness nor simplicity she had seen that night, but a feeling distilled to its purest form. 

Elise’s fingers brushed thick paint, sinking slightly into the wet surface. The red was no longer just a color—it was a voice, a pulse, a wound that scabbed but would never heal. At that moment, she understood. Art was not about complexity, but the courage to bleed, to be unapologetically seen. In its raw imperfection, her canvas finally spoke the truth, one undesired by any amount of recognition.