The Anatomy of Art Works - By Abigail Hope van der Spuy

Written By: Abigail Hope van der Spuy

Category: Short Horror Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In "The Anatomy of Art Works," Abigail Hope van der Spuy crafts a mesmerizing journey into the eerie world of art conservation, where the line between reality and the supernatural blurs. This short horror story is part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, showcasing the power of storytelling to explore unsettling themes. Abigail's narrative invites readers into the life of an apprentice art conservator, offering a glimpse into the unexpected and mysterious occurrences that unfold within the studio.

About the Work

Abigail's story delves into the depths of identity and perception, exploring the unsettling experience of an apprentice art conservator's encounter with an enigmatic painting. The narrative style is rich with vivid imagery and a haunting atmosphere, drawing readers into a world where art and reality merge. The story's mood is tense and mysterious, leaving audiences to ponder the nature of observation and existence within the realm of visual art.

The Anatomy of Art Works

Original Submission by Abigail Hope van der Spuy

The Anatomy of Art Works

By Abigail Hope van der Spuy

I am the apprentice to an Art Conservator; I fell into this line of work post-Art School. Despite how grateful I am for my closeness to the greats, I cannot say that I am particularly pleased with the direction my life has headed — I wanted to be an artist, and to see my paintings hung up in galleries; but it seems it was not meant to be.

I work for an old man with wiry gray hair, which insists on sticking up in every direction as if he were about to be struck by lightning, and a long white beard — yellowed at the corners of his mouth from his obsession with egg mayonnaise sandwiches. For the sake of my privacy, and his own, I shall refer to him as Mr. Bleakeley — simply because his outlook on life is entirely too positive, and that makes me feel bleak. I have heard people describe Mr. Bleakeley as 'fun,' I cannot say I agree with that sentiment. In my close assessment of him from the seven years I have worked as his apprentice, I have concluded that he is anything but fun. Instead, he is shallow-minded, protected, and eccentric.

We had only just recently attended a seminar at the Commonwealth Museum of Art and Literature. The seminar was entitled, "The Anatomy of Art Works," and it covered a grand new state-of-the-art X-Ray machine — a tool us conservators were now meant to use for close examination of our patients. I couldn't see the point in it, but Mr. Bleakeley's wallet was open before the hour-long seminar had even concluded. "We must keep up with the times, Clara." I was lectured to, "This is the future of Conservation!"

I know I am young, and I know I am expected to be the future of Mr. Bleakeley's studio — out of the dozen or so of applicants, I am the one he chose after all — but I do not appreciate change the same way he does. Sometimes I believe our roles have been reversed, that I am the grumpy old man he is meant to be, and he the young bright girl that I am meant to be.

The machine was set up in an old storeroom that had once been a darkroom. Mr. Bleakeley did not know how to operate an X-Ray machine, therefore it became my responsibility to do so. I also do not know how to operate an X-Ray machine, but the manual that came with it was at least comprehensive. The whole process takes roughly two weeks to complete, and the machine must be left alone for most of that time — I don't know why, but the instructions say the room must be locked, and the light inside the room must be red. Our first patient to undergo the advanced new imaging process of the machine was a painting I'd done of my mother. When the two weeks were up, Mr. Bleakeley was first in the room, and he was astounded. The image seemed as if all the colour had been drained from it, and the values subsequently inverted. "I can see the dimple you tried to hide — here, look, Clara!" As I know my artistic process, I can say that there was no dimple that I was trying to cover, however I was not going to tell Mr. Bleakeley that — out of both spite, and the knowledge that, once again, I was cleverer than him. We tested it a few more times on other less important works before working up to a client's piece. While Mr. Bleakeley had no fear of damaging any of the paintings, I certainly did, which is why I chose the route of caution and decided to not choose one of our client's works immediately.

For the machine's first true trial, we decided to radiograph a Florençia. She was in for a simple revarnishing, and despite her 200 years young existence, she held no structural damage. I could have never expected much to come from her procedure — Florençia was a beautiful, but classical artist. Her paintings focused on capturing small moments within the South American jungles. They were typically dark mixes of verdant green, crimsons, and purples, creating an almost claustrophobic atmosphere that drew the very soul of their viewer into the painting. I can stare at a Florençia for hours, and still never find the end of her depth.

This one in particular was entitled Between Macondo, 1812, and depicted a scene of the jungle floor. It was busy, overwhelming, and yet still my eyes navigated to the central darkness of the jungle, led there through Florençia's masterful use of colour and light. I could imagine a jaguar somewhere inside the bowels of red twisting vines and fat purple ferns, watching me, watching it. Its eyes would be a virescent sort of green, yellowing like a dying leaf. They hold a secret that I am not privy to yet.

Mr. Bleakeley decided that he could not wait the full 2 weeks for this radiograph to fully develop — he was simply too overcome with the giddy feeling of a child on Christmas Eve. I did not stop him because I like watching him fail. We unlocked the door together, and stepped into the red room. The machine was still whirring away in the centre of the room, the lights were still on, and the Florençia was still in her place. Mr. Bleakeley approached the machine — it was a big blocky thing that reminded me of an old printer. I stood back, waiting eagerly to watch his face fall. He pressed the 'stop' button, and raised the top half of the machine up to reveal its inner womb — where the radiograph lay in the developing fluid. Under normal lighting conditions, the liquid seemed to match the colour of a mirror, however, under the red bulbs of this room it was a dark, bloody colour.

To my dismay — and soon-to-be dread — Mr. Bleakeley was not utterly disheartened by his results, instead, he raised it up to the light, making the photo take on a solely red tint, and uttered, "It looks like you, Clara." My face scrunched up tight as I was first hit with the confusion of hearing interest in his voice, and then worry at what he'd said. For some reason, I'd felt like I'd been caught doing something wrong — like when I was younger, and used to sneak into the living room in the middle of the night, and watch TV. My father would always catch me. I don't like being watched. I rushed forward, and tried to snatch it from his hands, but he moved faster. I tried again, and suddenly I felt small as I still couldn't get my shame out of his hands.

I am a very rational person, and I am very mature for my age. I am smart. I am logical. And yet, as my eyes finally caught sight of the radiograph, I felt my entire being slant — like two tectonic plates of the Earth had just slipped past each other, creating an open chasm for something to bubble out, and something to sink within. It was true. She did look like me. I could see the painting, the vines and ferns were still visible, everything still matched, except in the central darkness.

Within the darkness, it is a portrait of me, I am looking over my shoulder as if my name had just been called. My eyes find my own, and I want to look away. My stomach twists in a way that makes an audible groan leave my throat. Her eyes hold the same life that mine do, and I know she can see me — the parts of me that only I know.

Mr. Bleakeley is looking at me now: smug. He is waiting for me in a similar way that the jaguar once did, waiting for me to join in on the joke, waiting for me to agree. What must I say? I want to ask. How do I make it stop? I nearly do. I look back at the original where I am not present. The colours that had drawn me in — the greens and blues and reds — are now encumbered by the overwhelming wash of the crimson of the light. I cannot look at it for too long, as her eyes are still watching me expectantly — as if I was the one to call her name. Clara.

It struck me then, as I looked at her, that Between Macondo, 1812 had been shown in galleries around the world for over 200 years. That I had been in the homes of dignitaries, in the Queen's collection, and now here, in my own care, as my own patient. I had been seen by millions across time, all of which I had not known, nor been aware of. It was only until now, that I had seen my own face, and heard my own name, that I suddenly became aware as to just how many people had seen me, all while I had never seen myself.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of storytelling and poetry. Participants from around the globe contribute their literary works, showcasing diverse voices and perspectives. The competition serves as a stage for both emerging and established writers to share their creative expressions with an international audience, fostering a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts.

Thank you, Abigail Hope van der Spuy, for sharing "The Anatomy of Art Works" with the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your story enriches the tapestry of literary exploration, inviting readers to question the relationship between art and identity. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your creative endeavors in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.