Hello class!
Here’s a link to the blog I’ve created for this project:
In this post I briefly introduced Mena since sadly not many people have heard of her. Also I included the first part of the short story I am writing inspired by “The Vine Leaf”. My story is narrated through the painter and it explains his experiences with the mysterious woman, his art and of course, that crimson and fatal mark. I will finish part two soon.
Hope you guys read it!
A Creative Re-Interpretation of Maria Cristina Mena’s “The Vine Leaf” from the Painter’s Perspective
Although the name Maria Cristina Mena remains unfortunately unrecognized among literary circles, an almost entirely unknown to the public, her work stands as an undeniable testimony of her refined, eerie, slightly whimsical style and incredible talent. Born in Mexico City in 1893, during the undeclared dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz, her socially affluent family left their home for New York city when she was fourteen, escaping from tumultuous events that later culminated in a revolution. Mena attended a boarding school where she received a privilege education, becoming proficient in English, French and Italian and developing a familiarity with classicism which heavily influenced her writing.
Similarly to many authors who resided in the States, gothic motifs also seemed to have inspired Mena. However, her interpretation of the gothic is seductively unique. Mena cleverly combined the already explored themes of dangerous scientific curiosity, greed, indomitable passions, jealousy and other quintessential gothic topics with a distinctive Mexican flavor. In her native culture, Mena found the necessary ingredients that would separate her from the many other accomplished Gothic writers. The comical candidness of her characters, their naivety and curiosity and the outbursting excitement with which they voice their opinions provided a welcome contrast to the grim and thoughtful Gothic heroes who were common in American and British works. Mena had an obsession with beauty and the growing field of plastic surgery. The capability of medicine to erase, enhance and improve fascinated Mena and inspired her to deal with this medical advancement in gothic terms. However, despite having morbid themes and shocking revelations, her short stories always maintain that exciting and fresh tone that distinguished this Chicana writer.
An example of this distinctive quality can be found in her most famous work “The Vine Leaf” which narrates the story of talented dead painter and the seemingly immaculate woman who committed the crime. The resolution to this gruesome incident is only given near the end of the story; what leads up to this revelation is charmingly narrated by an idiosyncratic doctor who once met the said woman as a patient. The Marquesa has a crimson birth mark, lost in southern part of her pale anatomy, which she requests to get removed despite it being in a private place. The mark is actually quite beautiful, or so the doctor describes, however, it reveals a past indiscretion she hopes will forever remain a secret. To preserve her good name, her position as a devout wife and to maintain her sexuality hidden, the marquesa decides to erase her mark and the only man who knew of it: the artists who immortalized her beauty in a painting now owned by her capricious husband. The cryptic veiled woman from the beginning of the narration turns out to be a clever killer, who fooled her husband and who tacitly confronts the doctor, the other man that knows her secret, and with manipulative charm assures that his knowledge of her crime will never be revealed.
Here’s a link for “The Vine Leaf” by Maria Cristina Mena:
http://public.wsu.edu/~campbelld/amlit/vineleaf.htm
With Mena’s tale in mind, I wrote a short story from the perspective of the painter. I tried to preserve certain themes in Mena’s mysterious protagonists and the allusions to classica myths- but I changed some important events to create a new version of this suspenseful tale.
Here’s part one of the story.
THE PETAL
I
The crimson figures on the canvas suddenly came to life. I saw how my ecclesiastical patrons began to oscillate calmly, tracing shadows with their fluid movement. The men and the background expanded and contracted, the demarcations disappeared, turning my meticulous design into a ghostly blur of shadow and light. I starred at the painting for several minutes, horrified. The dancing bodies would not stop moving. I panicked. My eyes had never betrayed me thus. A pulsating pain assaulted my forehead and the back of my neck, an unconscious punishment for my self-inflicted abuse; I remembered then that I had been working for over seven hours continuously. The fatigue was responsible for my strange visions, I assured myself. I sat down, moving slowly not to fall and prayed for this episode to pass quickly.
I gazed lazily at the red fabric of my ottoman. Its velvety touch was soothing but the intensity of its color inspired in me an irrational sense of dread. “A piece of furniture should not have so much character”, said a scornful voice amid the painful confusion of my mind. I shook my head and starred at the velvet once again. The pressure of my weight had created delicate waves on the fabric, turning the once still surface into a disconcerting pool of flowing scarlet liquid. “I’m resting in a lake of blood”, I uttered silently. I closed my eyes, hoping the fog would dissipate. I took three long breaths and felt my body relax. I stayed in darkness for a few minutes, trying to calm myself, hearing the seductive howling of the wind, the sound of the long-awaited rain as it hit roofs, windows and passengers alike and though longingly of food and rest, reliable cures for all sorts of maladies.
I finally opened my eyes with solemnity, resolved to feel better. I gazed at the canvas. The assaulting rays of light had disappeared and the figures on my painting were still and properly situated again. My headache had stopped and my pulse was normal. I smiled a relieved smiled. Everything was good again.
The only vestiges of my flirtation with madness were some small red shapes that floated in front of me, mere optical remnants from starring so long at the scarlett figures. Yet this new illusion did not bother me. The shapes were delicate and small like decaying leaves traveling with the autumn breeze. They were beautiful. I was glad to see them but they soon abandoned me and my dingy room returned to its bleak disposition.
The initially welcomed drizzle that had created such lovely music grew into a ferocious storm. Thunder, frightened horses, men seeking shelter—all sounds of desperation—came from outside, bringing in the life I had long abandoned for pleasant seclusion. Many homes suffered from flooding and dozens of animals, goats and sheep, perished that unfortunate day.
But the great deluge of 1889 would forever be remembered as the night father Vicente, the founder of the town’s school, was struck by lightning and killed. This unexpected tragedy was a fact. The stories explaining why a man of the cloth, and one of his reputation, had been wondering the forest alone at such late hour were contradictory and vile, as all rumors are. The truth is that our provincial heaven lost a presence of good in that storm. A balance was broken, violated and a novel corruption begin to arise amid the tempest, blooming in the shadows like an obedient sentinel of sin. I should have known —or maybe I did know but only with a fragile conviction— to interpret his death and my visions as an omen. But I was never superstitious and so I only understood things when it was too late. I know now that on this night, amid the invalid birds and the rootless trees, a crimson rider galloped through the blessed rain towards our dusty town, carrying a promise of madness in its humid lips, a kiss of tender horror for this lonesome painter. It was on this violent night of confusion and death that I met her, my muse, and her rose petal.
II
I had been living like an anchorite for several months by the time I first saw her. Perhaps it was my solitude that intensified her loveliness to an inconceivable, almost divine state. Perhaps she was actually that beautiful. All I know is that in her calm voice, in her assertive eyes, I found a new inspiration, much more powerful than any monetary gain I’d received from my handsome benefactors.
She seemed hesitant when I opened the door . ¿”Señor Andrade?”, she asked. I nodded and she proceeded with more confidence “My name is Euridice” she said, leaving her identity partially protected, “I want to speak with you about a possible commission. You are still working, right sir?” I nodded again awkwardly and gesture for her to come inside. She was wearing a black lace veil, which protected her hair from the deluge outside. Some capricious wisps had escaped the bondage of her mantilla and now rested in her pale forehead. The immaculate aura surrounding this lovely stranger tacitly disciplined my accustomed arrogance. I felt inadequate in her presence.
Her brown eyes had feverish look of alertness, of impeding danger, and they remained alarmingly open throughout our brief meeting despite the calculated tranquility of her words. Those bright stars were crowned with spectral shadows, dark lagoons that revealed the sorrow of sleepless nights and defeated dreams. Still, her eyes were lovely. Maybe it was their unsettling quality what made them so captivating. Everything she did, every rehearsed gesture and fragile smile betrayed years of training in the feminine art of propriety and retrain. But amid the insincerity of her serene voice I could hear whispers of a growing liberating dissonance born out of pain and anger. I wondered what despicable thing had dared torment such a special creature. She expressed her desire to hire my services to paint a portrait. I agreed immediately, hoping the subject would be her; I was desperate to learn more about this cryptic nymph. We arranged to meet a week from that day. At the door, she requested my absolute discretion concerning her visit and my new project. I kissed her hand shyly and promised to remain silent. It pleased me to share a secret with her.
PART TWO WILL BE COMING SOON!