She painted the sky a different colour than any previously known. But she did not name it, and the eyes could not quite discern its hue, and when a similar colour was offered as a possible cousin of this new creation, no one seemed capable of agreeing exactly what that similar colour might be. All could agree though that no sky was ever that colour, not even at the beginning of all things, though some believe it might be what will be witnessed at the end of it all, whenever that day may come; anyone who said this did so while keeping their eyes on the ground beneath them, not even rising their eyes to meet those of whoever they were speaking to.

Of course, people asked her what colour it was, but she would not answer that question, or indeed any question at any point of her career, bar to say that all she wished to convey about her work was contained in the work itself, and anything else was akin to ‘masturbating without achieving orgasm’, which silenced the room it was uttered in until someone coughed and changed the conversation, the men present confused – and it was a man who coughed and changed the conversation – the women nodding their heads in an understanding that bypassed conscious thought, though few of either sex present recalled being present, the words discovered via a magazine or from someone, some unnamed someone, they believed had been there.

She never finished that painting, no, not that particular one. But every painting after had a sky that colour. Even if there was no sky present in the painting, it simply was there, the eyes finding its shape and shade everywhere. No one can agree when that particular painting was created, but some suggest it was halfway during her career without being entirely certain where that halfway point might be, her first paintings appearing when she was twenty, or possibly thirty, maybe even before all that when she was a teen.

When she died, she was dead for months before she was found, that telltale scent leading the neighbours to make calls to the appropriate services and speak of what they suspected, the ‘mad woman’ next door – though they had the decency to refer to her as such to themselves and close family –  was finally gone, perhaps, some offered, those with romance and mystery and hope still flowing through their veins, to a sky the colour of no sky before.

Her paintings sold well afterwards, far more than they did when she was alive, even with the curiosity aroused by that colour that had never been seen before. And her name became known in certain circles – again more than before – though she herself remained as mysterious as her sky of a colour no one could quite name. A handful of books were written about that colour, theories and suggestions put forth as to what it was and where it came from before it ebbed from her brush, what it may have meant, for it must mean something after all, some said, or what was the point of it? In fact, more words were produced about that colour than about the woman herself, no one claiming to know her – not even charlatans hoping to gain some fame of their own – beyond the occasional sighting in the nearby shop, the nod of the head and nothing more.

Some of us, since her death, check the sky from time to time, seeking any hint of the colour her eyes gave her brush, like seeking a sign for some event we cannot categorize but know will occur, given enough time. The sky remains stubbornly itself, shifting through all the familiar colours, each one appropriate to the season, to the time of the day, the night, but never that colour in her painting that now hangs in a museum in a country few can afford to travel to.

And just to be clear, I have never seen the painting, bar in colour reproductions, which I am told do not capture the colour perfectly. Nor did I ever meet or see the woman. I just know of this all because most people do, or some tale somewhat similar, like a secret being shared again and again until it becomes a story owned by everyone, a few details changed here and there to suit the teller.

The End.