The Artist

"Nothing is wrong with it."

"What the hell are you talking about. Just looks at it."

"What does that even mean 'A Problem'?"

"The color is covering the lines, no defined shapes, and what do you tell your friends."

"The lines are suppose to disappear. That's the point. There are no definite thingness in this world and we're constantly in a cycle of evaporating and reconstituting. Maybe it needs a thin blue line for you to get it?"

"What do you mean that's the point? What's that suppose to mean? Evaporate and reconstitute? Pretentious bullshit. And don't start with that police state bullshit. I do not have the time."

"Same. And no its not bullshit, pretentious for some. Simply it is like a cloud that builds up then dissipates only to reappear again but in a new different form but still essentially a cloud."

"Do you sit around thinking of ways to try and impress your little girl friends?"

"I'm not scared of the unknown. I wouldn't expect a suit such as yourself to be captivated by anything not having tits and a ass."

"I don't need to be captivated, I facilitate transactions. It's as simple as that, get art and sell art. The people who buy these things do it not because they loose themselves but to show off. And you should be thankful I still give you the time of day, you need me you ungrateful piece of shit. You and your hippie friends are incapable of understanding the complexities I navigate."

"Bootlicker!"

The silence was pierced with the cry of the canvas. It hung in the air, trapped between the two dueling.

"You....You did not...You did not just tear my piece."

"No, I merely helped it to change form. It will, what did you say, reconstitute itself right?"

"I...I'm...I can't be here."

Without breaking into a full sprint or seeing the damage he dashed from the room . Each step requiring more and more will power. His throat was in a knot with the terror of not making rent next week. This can't be happening again he thought growing near the stairs. His vision was starting to lose focus and narrow. The echo of every footstep reverberating down the tunnels of his ears. It was no longer about the painting. Memories of his dad and no piece of art breaking thru to the dead man. It had been decades but he could still feel his demanding eye's scanning for something to dig his grip into. He felt the air brushing away tears. 'Is that the wind, was I outside?' he thought.

He stood next to easel like a predator proud of their day's hunt. The ragged slit exposing the central support member, salivating for the bone marrow. Every damn week it was some new metaphor with these artists. He couldn't stand it, just speak normal. What happened to classical art work? There was shape and it made you feel something visceral. Something to go tell your family about. Not this subjective interpret for yourself shit every new artist wanted to champion.

Hearing the screams outside of the room he peeled his gaze away the open wound. He could hear people from across the gallery rushing to something. Taking one final look at his prey as he reached the doorway. 'Was that an ambulance?' he thought.

In the time it took to reach the doorway he created a narrative about what happened and what his take was. An artist having lost their temper not knowing what it all really meant unleashed out of frustration. Knowing there was no camera in the room and the artist couldn't afford not to agree. The last time he was begging me for rent. It was an act of self-mutilation and the audience was gonna eat it up.

Passing thru the doorway and coming to the stairs he saw a mass of people huddled around, chaos. A woman was trying to yell commands in an attempt to organize the ungovernable. He started to see the blood oozing its way out thru the mess of people. A wall of human flesh too dense to make out who it was that fell.

The siren died out and he thought 'finally some order' as they came rushing. They were really hustling. Authority had arrived so the people started to self organize and take form. The EMTs got up the stairs just as the body was becoming visible. The Artist lay motionless, blood seeping out of his exposed skull. He saw dollar signs in made out in the blood. The artist just coming into his prime defaced his last piece out of frustration. They would eat this shit up, he just knew it.

The Artist had lost consciousness as he took the first step. His legs gave out but his momentum kept propelling him forward head first into the stairs. Tumbling the rest of the way down to the platform he ended up crumpled on his side. Blood speckled the entire stair case.

Watching the amorphous amalgam of blood and people grow reaching the edge of the platform the artwork's title began to took form. The sunlight shooting through the skylight outlining the artist in a column of light. "It will be called D.O.A." he whispered as he took the first step.