Life and Death of a Communist Portrait

I am "Self Portrait Dedicated to Irene Rich", a painting of Diego Rivera. As a self portrait, my creator Diego Rivera painted me in his own image. Since my conception in Diego’s garden I have dwelled in the Mexican Museum of Modern Art. I always assumed that I would stay at the Museum, holding Diego’s apology letter in my hands until the end of time, forever my creator’s message of atonement. I was less certain of this after a visit from two men on a Tuesday evening in march 1955.
The two men were looking at a variety of Diego Rivera paintings that the museum had on display. After the younger one came closer to look at me they spoke shortly.
“Look a’ this one, Hondeur. E’s perfec’.”
The other man, Hondeur I assume, approached his companion, removed his tweed hat and began examining me. I got the impression that these exhibitors were from some magazine or news paper. I routinely readied myself for the worst, a bad review.
“You’re right Marco, perfect; free of Diego’s cubist movement.” Hondeur finally responded. “There is nothing revolutionarily artistic in this piece”
“I was thinking dat e’s Rivera’s self portrait so il be clear dat its him we ‘ave trouble weeth… commi-peeg.”
I heard hostility in Marco’s voice, his words confused me. They had both called me perfect; this was a first for me so I basked in the feeling of self worth. This, however, lasted shortly because I realized that they were not talking about the work of my creator.
“We will need to make further planning at the studio, but mark this one as our example.”
“Wha’ever you say boss.”
The two men left. I had nothing but time to reflect on what they had said; what did they mean by an ‘example’? What did communism have to do with me? I am a painting unrelated to politics. Diego was a communist though; did this make me one also? Communist or not how could they have trouble with Diego? Diego is the greatest Mexican painter who ever lived, he was one to be revered, venerated; they were fools, all reviewers know that.
After a couple days my confusion changed to anger. I did not know what they were or what they meant but I knew that Diego was right. Diego had always been right; he was my creator and the perfect painter. They were wrong and I hated them for it. I wanted them dead for it. And they would die; all the humans die. It is depicted in the art around me, art that is immortal behind the glass walls.
Hondeur and Marco returned on Friday. They came directly to me and looked at me in a weird way. They looked at me from several different angles. At first I thought that they were incredibly stupid; paintings are, for all practical purposes, free of depth; looking at me from different angles would achieve nothing. I later realized that they were looking at my glass wall. Good, I thought; they know about the wall, they know I am untouchable.
I always assumed that all paintings have feelings and have the same feelings about display glass. We can not see it but since we came to the museum it has always been their protecting us. The real job of the wall is to keep us chronically unaltered. Diego created me to be stagnant and I will be the way my creator intended.
Hondeur and Marco came again during the busiest time on a Sunday. They spent much more time this visit looking at my frame and the workings of the museum. An ignorant thing to do in a museum, I thought. They came regularly on Sundays but they never focused on the other paintings. One weekend they came and studied the anti-theft security systems, another weekend the looked at the fire control system and another weekend they came and looked at alarm systems. It seemed as though they might have been hired by the museum the way they examined all the aspects of the place.
Wither they worked for the museum or not I still hated them. I realized a difference between the anger that I felt for these men and other reviewers. They were hostile on a different level, a deeper level. Their hostility began to scare me. No one had spoken this way about Diego and me before. My fear had only been growing since their second visit and I began for the fist time to worry about my safety. I don’t understand the world beyond my box, I had no idea what was happening with these men.
One Saturday evening after closing, in anticipation of the next day’s visit, I was surprised to see Marco. Hondeur was not with him and he was wearing dark clothing, but I could tell from his shape, colour and lines in his face that it was indeed Marco.
He came up to me and removed a tool from his backpack. I had never seen it before so I was surprised when he swung it full force at me. My glass was shattered. I felt overwhelmingly vulnerable. Without my invisible wall I could so easily be touched, changed or even destroyed. Marco put this tool back and searched his bag for something else.
I hoped with all my essence that he was not going to deface me. I tried to fool myself that he would take me to another museum, or sell me on the black market. He had no reason to hurt me; I had done nothing to anyone. His hatred for Diego has no relation to me; I am not responsible for the acts of my parent.
Marco took out from his bag a jug full of some liquid. With one movement he screwed off its lid and then with another doused me with the liquid. My face, hair and jacket were soaked and I could feel myself bloating almost instantly. He then took a lighter from his pocket and set me ablaze.
Immediately the sprinkler system turned on due to smoke. Marco was lost from my mind. The fire horribly burned my face as it spread to the top of my frame. The water was working fast against it but not fast enough. I could feel myself shrinking and crumpling into ash everywhere. The fire extinguished.
Only my hands were untouched by the fuel or the flames and in them my letter to Irene. After that I would be remembered as a communist’s painting that was all but destroyed for enterprise.