The Painting Astronaut

She became known as the painting astronaut. When in space, she would paint the Earth and sometimes the moon. The media was fascinated with her. What do you think the painting astronaut is up to right now, Lydia? they would say on our favorite morning news show. Well, let’s take a peek inside the capsule and find out, Paul. My bet is she’s painting! The painting astronaut had an easel and a canvas set up in the cockpit. A palette. All her paints. A smock as well as a replacement smock. You had to be extra careful with the paints due to the exigencies of outer space. Things would just float away sometimes. The paints could just float right up out of their respective bottles if you weren’t careful. This actually happened once. I am not shitting you. When it happened, some said it happened because the universe was itself an aspiring artist, a budding painter, and the extracting of the paints from their bottles was an attempt by the universe to paint a portrait of itself; others, physicists mostly, said it was because of gravity, or rather its absence. These others, the physicists, were correct, as it turned out. It’s basic science. Shit. The former ones, the ones who said it was because the universe was trying to paint itself, were so embarrassed when the physicists said what they said about gravity. And it was also how they said it: kind of haughtily. The former ones felt something akin to shame. Their faces went red, which was so apparent on all the 4K TVs set up in the dentist’s office. I…I was just being metaphoric…metaphorical…, the former ones said. I didn’t mean paint itself for real. It was a figure of speech. Obviously the paints rise out of their bottles because of the gravity…because of the way that…I mean, because of the pull of the gravity…the tugging…of it. By it. A firm and resolute tugging. And then the former ones made a firm and resolute tugging motion—on national TV!—and in a moment became embarrassed all over again. Became even redder, more ashamed. We felt so bad for them. It was hard to watch. For a second I forgot all about my impacted molar. Thank God for the ability to go to the capsule. Let’s go to the capsule, said Linda, as the former ones kept muttering things about metaphors, about fervid tugging. This happened pretty early on in the painting career of the painting astronaut, when the “stray paint situation,” as the captions on CNN put it, kept the news agencies fed for several weeks. The paints got everywhere. Who knew the space capsule had so many nooks and crannies! I sure didn’t! There were so many colors. Such a blending of hues. Do you see all those colors, Lydia? Yes, of course I do, Paul. We’re both looking at the exact same screen. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been asking me really obvious questions lately. I know, said Paul. I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted. It’s Charles. He’s…he’s… What is it, Paul? Spit it out. You can tell me. It’s just that he’s always…hovering, said Paul. And, sure enough, there was Charles, right over Paul’s left shoulder. Paul, said Charles. Hey, Paul. I’m right here. I know you are, Charles, said Paul. I know. How could I ever forget? When the camera pulled back to reveal Charles, there was a sudden shriek of violins, added in postproduction; the shock of it all, the shock of a sudden Charles, got us but good. Did we get you but good? said Linda, smiling. Yes, we said, from the dentist’s office. Paul and Charles were both laughing; they were in on it. OK, OK, let’s go to the capsule for real this time, said Linda. The former ones, the ones who had spoken of universe-as-painter, were still shifting uncomfortably in their blue plastic chairs. They looked at Linda as if to ask: Can we go now? Please? Linda shook her head and mouthed something that we couldn’t make out, but it might have been Suck it up, the former ones. My molar was killing me now—the air in the waiting room had gone ice cold from a sudden gust of wind; the door to the outside was being held open by a jumpsuit-clad delivery driver; a flurry of snowflakes wafted in and melted immediately on the brown carpet—but I could hardly take my eyes off the screen. They had gone to the capsule, finally. The painting astronaut was in the midst of chasing all her stray paints around the cabin. Some of the paints hit the wide white wall across from the hamster bay, and the colors began to mix and smear. Maybe the universe is trying to paint itself! said the painting astronaut. The former ones looked at one another and then looked at Linda and then began to cry. See? they wailed. Do you see? An image began to form on the wall across from the hamster bay; even the hamsters appeared to take note; the camera zoomed in on their twittering noses. The image that was forming was like nothing any of us had seen before. It was baffling and beautiful, and so very cyan. On the canvas of the painting astronaut the painting astronaut had painted a portrait of the Earth. A caricature, I guess you’d call it. In it, the Earth was shaped like an egg, with all the continents stretched longitudinally. It’s kind of like how that artist outside the oyster restaurant made your ears so friggin’ big, Paul! Paul nodded but his face fell; he touched his ears; he went red, bright red. I could hardly take it. Sometimes it’s hard to take things. I averted my eyes; I brought my hand to my face, with force. That’s when my molar came loose and tumbled to the carpet; it came to rest next to a giant wet spot. The delivery driver said, Holy shit, man. Holy fuck. But I felt no pain, which is to say no additional pain on top of the normal pain of being human and alive. They went back to the capsule, and I could look again. The image on the wall. It was so beautiful. I was transfixed by what was happening up there. We all were. On the wall across from the hamster bay the universe kept painting.