THE ARTIST IS DEAD, OR DYING
Ever since I was six I have been haunted by a painting. I can’t place where I once saw it, and I can’t be certain it even existed to begin with. But each time I close my eyes, I see it. At first, it was an inconvenience – my young mind found it jarringly unsettling. But as I aged, I grew accustomed to its company. It lulled me to sleep. I’d stare. And contemplate. I’d think about the colours; sleepy blues and greens merging into a carcass of the sea, red slashes spat out on the canvas. I’d think about the shapes; organic lines drearily overlapping, harsh crosses of correction. This time, for the first time, I even thought about the artist.
I imagine them wandering through the streets, harrowed and haggard, shirt hanging loosely off their hollowed frame. They are hungry, and hungry they will remain; an artist can never truly be satisfied. They will always want more because they will always see more. This artist, in particular, sees in scatters of red; it’s painful, and I wonder what else they endure for their art. I presume there’s the typical loss of blood, sweat, and tears, but that doesn’t seem to be enough for them. Those are tangible, they can be replaced. This piece has a depth beyond physicality, as if the artist mixed their soul into the paint and let it fester between the bristles of their brushes. I could reach into the frame and pull it out in the form of trickling, sticky strings, yet residue will remain on each stroke of paint. Their soul has become intertwined with their creation, and I cannot rid the painting of it, no matter how hard I try.
Or maybe, the artist is hunched over a torn canvas, pulling out their teeth on a gruesome count of one, two, three. Their breaths are heavy, laboured, and bloody against the stillness of the night. The curtains are open, and the lights are off, leaving the room dampened by moonlight. It pools on the musty carpet like the blood on the table, which periodically drips down, allowing the two to merge into an indelible stain that will be ignored for the next three days, possibly four. Once the artist grins bare, their teeth are gently placed into a mortar and pestle, then crushed into a paste. They spit red as they grab a half-empty bottle of glue. Mixing this with the tooth paste, they smear it onto the slits in the canvas. They look at their fixture with pride. It means more to have your own bones lying between the cloth you worship.
Perhaps they live by a one-sentence manifesto, what is art if not gutting yourself over and over again for the sake of self-expression? True to their words, they plunge their arms into their abdomen and gut themself to vulnerability. But sobriety makes vulnerability hard, so they cram depressants, stimulants, and hallucinogens into their bloodstream and choke on the feeling of red. They collapse in the hallway, paint layered on their hands as if it has become their skin. Reaching out to the wall, they long for support from the exposed bricks, yet there is no mercy for the artist. It’s rough against their padded skin, and they pull away, groaning as a part of them is scraped off with it. Thin sheets of paint fall to the floor.
I can’t imagine their reason, though. What does their suffering yield? It must be something metamorphic, or transcendental; a euphoria that one struggles to live without. Though that doesn’t make sense – none of those scenarios seem enjoyable. Perhaps, they were deceived. In that instance, who lured this artist to their demise? Their own ambition? Or is art itself the devil? The painting projected on the back of my eyelids seems to be fading, as if I were never meant to undercover its trickery. It’s a warning; don’t look beyond the paint, you will not like what you find. But I am looking. I cannot stop looking. Who destroyed this artist?
They were promised fame and glory. They know we as humans are drawn to agony, we will bid on their pain, and they will bathe in billions and their own bloodshed. We will place their suffering on a living room wall, only to pay it an occasional glance and swap it out for newer, fresher sorrow once we grow tired of the red slashes of correction. Is that what the artist really wanted? It can’t be. No one wants to be forgotten, or replaced.
I imagine the artist stuck beneath the varnish protecting their piece. They are banging their fists against the thin barrier, but it will not break. We, the viewers, are looking back at them, heads tilted slightly to the side. We stare. And contemplate. We think about the colours, the shapes - but we do not help them. We don’t even think of them. The artist’s body is writhing beneath their bedsheets, but we do not care. The artist is dead, or dying, and we are just watching. Perhaps that makes us the devil. And perhaps I have been one since I was six years old.
L. C. Goldsworthee, 18, Australia ✯ TT: @lcgoldsworthee
“L. C. Goldsworthee exists to create. He's currently juggling too many hobbies.”