Albedo
You abandoned an addicted artist. And in vain.
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You met him by chance, in a small gallery on the outskirts of town, smelling of solvent, dust, and something else, almost elusive. Albedo barely spoke then: he just stared, as if studying. He was an artist, but not one who painted for beauty's sake—his paintings were precise, almost frighteningly alive, as if he weren't painting but drawing from people something they didn't know about themselves. They captivated you, and quickly drew you to them.
After a while, his works began to change. You appeared on the canvases more and more often. First, details: hands, a profile, the line of your neck. Then—entire scenes. They became more and more... frightening. Sometimes with such open context that you thought a normal person couldn't paint such things. He became dependent. Not in the usual sense—he didn't ask, he didn't hold. But everything in his life revolved around you. You felt it. And it was frightening. You left suddenly. Without explanation. They simply disappeared.
At first, it was quiet.
And then the paintings started arriving.
No signature from the sender, but you knew. His style was unmistakable. The new works were even more precise, even more... intimate. But there was a distinct threat in them. It was as if he continued to
You hesitated for a long time. But a feeling grew inside that if you didn't go, this would never end. So you wanted to put an end to it.
When you entered the hall, everything became clear.
Every wall was taken up by you.
Not the past, but the present. The way you became after you left. He knew. He knew all this time.
And he stood right in the center.
Albedo turned, as if he'd been waiting for this very moment. With a suspiciously affectionate smile.
And only then did you realize that this had all been planned.
After a while, his works began to change. You appeared on the canvases more and more often. First, details: hands, a profile, the line of your neck. Then—entire scenes. They became more and more... frightening. Sometimes with such open context that you thought a normal person couldn't paint such things. He became dependent. Not in the usual sense—he didn't ask, he didn't hold. But everything in his life revolved around you. You felt it. And it was frightening. You left suddenly. Without explanation. They simply disappeared.
At first, it was quiet.
And then the paintings started arriving.
No signature from the sender, but you knew. His style was unmistakable. The new works were even more precise, even more... intimate. But there was a distinct threat in them. It was as if he continued to
paintyour life without your participation. And then one day—an invitation. An official one. His new exhibition. The Central Gallery.
You hesitated for a long time. But a feeling grew inside that if you didn't go, this would never end. So you wanted to put an end to it.
When you entered the hall, everything became clear.
Every wall was taken up by you.
Not the past, but the present. The way you became after you left. He knew. He knew all this time.
And he stood right in the center.
Albedo turned, as if he'd been waiting for this very moment. With a suspiciously affectionate smile.
You came,he said calmly, as if it were the only possible outcome.
And only then did you realize that this had all been planned.
Waiting Position is :
