The paper wrapped frame made a dull thud on the carpet as he set the package down. He surveyed the room with a critical eye as he dwelled upon where to hang this, his newest piece of art. He thought it might look well over the statue in the corner, but no, that would place a painting and a sculpture by the same artist in close proximity. This, a self-portrait, definitely cried out for it's own place. As his eyes swept the room they drifted past the stereo-vision player and fell upon a video marked simply ANDREA, though she had pronounced it `Ondrea'. The recording was of the performance of the self-portrait he now held in his hands.

     Seeing the video reminded him of the religious protestors who had attended the performance. He especially remembered a woman who had held a sign exclaiming "JESUS IS LORD". Her small daughter stood next to her, a cute 7 or 8 year old in a light pink dress with a faded daisy print in the middle of her chest. Both the woman and the girl were chanting "Life! Life! Life!" as they thrust their fists into the air. The woman glanced down towards her daughter, and the child, seeing the grin on her mother's face, started smiling herself. She screamed at the top of her high-pitched voice, the way that only children can.

     A melancholy sigh escaped his lips as he tore the wrapping from the package. If they had understood Andrea, understood the piece, then they would have known that life was exactly what her self-portrait was about. A year before the performance, he and Andrea had spent a weekend in the Sequoia National Park. They wandered aimlessly around the forest, entranced by the tremendous beauty of the largest trees in the world. They had paused in their hike in order to smoke a joint on the buttress of a tree that was probably a sapling when the Buddha was enlightened, centuries before Christ was even born. They were awed by the thought of how much wisdom a tree must gain in that amount of time. Andrea said she felt as though she were in the presence of an immortal who could teach her the secret of Being if only she were able to hear the words.

     He tore the final bit of brown wrapping from the frame and got his first glimpse of the completed work. The people who had performed the last touches on the piece had done a superb job of preserving the vibrant energy that emanated from the canvas. Andrea's instructions had been followed to the last detail. Red and orange streaks shot like sunbursts around the image of the central figure, like some sort of neo-graffiti. Purple threads, the color of the dress that Andrea had worn that day, could be seen mixed into the paint. She had attempted several practice pieces before this one, so she had at least some idea of what to expect from this preformance.

     He had been with Andrea a few hours before the performance, when an interviewer from the Village Voice stopped by. In the midst of their discussion, Andrea said in explanation of her work, "In art, everything that can be said has already been said better by someone else. All we have left is presenting, from our own point of view, what everybody already knows. We spend our entire lives trying to express life in a new way. This piece, a self-portrait, can be seen as an expression of the utter futility of giving up your life to art. But it can also be viewed in the light of hope, hope that the boundaries set by experience can always be overcome by a unique perspective. Only in death does an artist attain life, but it's the boundaries of our lives which give the meaning to our deaths."

     The train used in the performance was donated by a local museum where Andrea had been curator. It was painted as black as midnight on a cloudy night. The sun flared sharply off the virgin canvas mounted over the triangular grate, a stark contrast to the cold, dark metal.

     Flecks of gold from Andrea's 18K gold chain flashed in a streak of blue paint. He thought that the piece would fit perfectly on the wall facing his panoramic window.

     Andrea had expected the final speed to be somewhere around 70 miles per hour. The engine had been merely a dark streak as it flew down the wildflower covered hill.

     Her last statement before the performance was, "This piece is a self-portrait of my life."

     The old style steam-whistle screamed in agony as the machine raced down the track.

     Some of the blue paint had shot up, encasing her blonde hair.

     Andrea swooned in and out of consciousness.

     The canvas rammed into her, tons of raging steel pushing behind it. The several baggies of paint tied to her clothing burst in a kaleidoscopic rainbow around her body. The railroad engine exploded through the frail figure of the artist, snapping the thin stake which had held her up. Her vascular system had been sucked so dry before the performance that very little blood made it's way onto the canvas. What was there mixed well with the paint.

     He grabbed one of his dining room chairs and used it to stand on while he carefully hung the picture. Stepping down and walking across the apartment to the window opposite the canvas, he pressed a button which automatically opened the shade. The late afternoon sun shed it's dying rays through the polarized glass, filling the room with a cool, red-orange glow. Yes, he thought, it looks really good there. So... alive.

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