Ethan's Inferno- part 2 take 1

Ethan’s Inferno: part two


There’s a man slinging paint frantically against a sheet of wood, almost attacking the board. He didn’t even turn at the sound of the chimes in the door. The two visitors scanned the walls and Ethan cleared his throat which finally caused the painter to turn around, jumping at the sound.

"How’s it going?" he asked, flushed either from embarrassment or adrenaline, "Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in."

Something behind Ethan disturbed the artist and he turned just in time to see the stranger’s leaving back. Guess he remember where he needed to go. To Ethan the door looked to be a portal to some eerily drab charade of a world. The vibrancy of the walls made the twisted landscapes and swirling wisps of color look to be reality. The world outside looked like someone had washed the color away with a computer.

"Nice place," Ethan said, "You the owner?"

"Actually my wife and our friend own it," he smiled, "I come in and run things from time to time- and paint," he motioned. "It helps me relax."

Ethan looked around and thought he saw hundreds of bottles of alcohol, before realizing they were in front of a mirror. "You sell booze, here?"

"MM_Hmm," the artist nodded, "and we serve hors d’oeuvres and wings and such after four."

"Cool," Ethan replied. I’ll have to remember this place if I make it.

The unfinished painting on the board looked nothing like those throughout the gallery. On the walls hung dream swirls, hands, soaring eagles, dancing bodies, spirals of happiness. His work was menacing and yet beautiful. "Any of these yours?" Ethan asked.

"A couple," the painter said," we actually had a few complaints and most of my stuff doesn’t fit this décor. But I take care of little things around here, fixing whatever breaks, cooking, being this damn sexy," he smiled, "so they give me a room in the back. It’s like I have my own gallery within a gallery. Of course, it’s not all my stuff."

"Right on."

"I tried to tell them I didn’t need the space, but they insisted."

"May I see?" Ethan asked.

"Sure. It’s right through there," the artist said pointing.

Twisted bodies. Gory landscapes. The room was a chimera of death and sex and science. It’s like a crypto zoological anatomy exhibit. Ethan was reminded of Japanese art depicting women being ravaged by various creatures of slime. But there were tamer works as well; fantasy portraits, nudes.

The artist in the nest room’s work stood out from the rest. All had a similar essence to them. There’s something Ethan couldn’t quite place, the themes were as different as the subjects, but there existed a definite correlation between the works.

"Does anyone ever buy these?" Ethan asked the man who was just entering the room.

"Probably more than you think," he replied.

"Not that it’s not good stuff- I love it! I just meant, you know, is there a real demand for this type of thing?"

The man nodded, "Thanks. I’ve actually gotten a few commissions from some pretty big clients."

Ethan assumed dominatrices, fetish clubbers, but he said nothing.

"I’ve done some game design, too, characters and things," the artist continued.

"How did you get to this? How did you decide you were going to paint for a living? Is it profitable?"

"Oh it took a lot of work. Lots. Everything does," his eyes glazed over as he recalled memories, "I remember going through times I just about gave in. There were nights I couldn’t sleep, because of worry. But then there were nights I stayed up just slinging paint, ’cause I had an image I couldn’t get out of my head. They didn’t always turn out great, but I could always come back and rework them."

"Wow. I can never muster that dedication," Ethan said.

"You’re an artist?"

"I dabble. I have ideas that I try to sketch or paint but I usually screw them up too bad to finish or I just lose interest halfway through."

"You sound a lot like me when I was younger," the artist said, "I’d sit and get frustrated after ten or fifteen minutes and get so upset with what I was trying to do, I’d just say, ’screw it’ and toss it and move on to something else- usually a video game or something. And then I’d sit and wonder why no one ever noticed my artwork- the one or two pieces I had, you know. Why didn’t anyone see my talent? You know, that’s the kind of thinking I was doin’. But then, you know, I just realized one day-- no one sees anything because people can’t see my thoughts. If they did then no one would have to paint. There would be no movies or books or much of anything, really. We can’t read minds, so no one could see the ideas in my head. And I had nothing to show. I realized I was after the quick fix. I wanted the product but didn’t want to do the work, you know? But I had to learn-- you can’t have it that way. It takes work."

For a minute Ethan wondered if he should’ve been offended. Was that little speech about me? Is he trying to say I don’t do the work? I work, I just get frustrated. I figure why force it? If the picture isn’t ready to come out, then I can’t force it. It has to come out on its own, right?

Ethan’s driving partner walked past the door, giving the impression that he was lost. "I should probably catch up with him," Ethan lied, "Thanks for letting me look around."

"Hey no problem," the painter said, "come on back to see us, grab one of those flyers by the door. It’s a list of upcoming shows."

Ethan reached for the door and lightening struck, "They’re all missing something," he said turning to the artist, "the people in your paintings, they’re all missing something."

The painter cocked his head, looking left and up, furrowing his brow, "Yea, I guess they are." He turned back to sling more pain and called out, "Have a good one!"

The chimes said goodbye as Ethan passed the threshold into drab reality. Looking right he saw his companion ducking into a bookstore. Often considering himself a writer, since he’d written a short story or two and had ideas for three whole novels, he rarely passed an opportunity to mingle with other writer’s words.