Chapter 22
Inside the room stood a sprawling collection of canvases on easels, like ballerinas lining up at the barre. While Merrick never had any interest in being an artist, that world fascinated him: the tools, the brushes, the tubes of paint, the canvases leaning against the wall.
On two easels to his left were paintings of a dark-haired man, his face distorted in what Merrick saw as a cry of agony. Across from those paintings were three half-finished ones. One was of a field of flowers; the next one was of a woman holding birds in her hands with her own hidden wings behind her; the last was an eight-foot tall canvas with an image of Merrick standing naked as he leaned against a French door, his leg bent to hide the view of his p***s. The painting was perfect, but it hurt him.
“I ne
