How I create my paintings.

You want to know how I create them?…what inspires me?  Isn’t it obvious through my paintings? Rhetorical question, he thought as he lowered his head listening to the lady’s reply.  No, I’m inspired by concepts, by life and, of course, by Death itself, he enumerated interrupting the disappointed reporter. He hurried to the next one by calling his name aloud and searching for a “John”-like face in the crowd. “John” he repeated as the gentleman stood up and introduced himself.

He hated press conferences. It was becoming a routine; different façade of the same questions. The critics were the same. “Yet another masterpiece!” He read it so many times in their boring headlines. The word masterpiece should be banished as too much cliché, he thought as the magazines vanished timidly in his cozy fireplace.

“Let me first say that I’m a fan of your work, said a humbled John, and I’ve notice that you use a wide variety of texture materials in your painting; can you elaborate on that for us?”

“Do you also want me to explain every stroke, every emotion and meaning that goes into my work? Is that what you want john? He stormed

“No, I…”

“Well I’ll show you, I don’t mind, I’ll show you!”

It’s been a couple of weeks since the incident. The media called it “a meltdown”, “a stroke of age”, “ looney old phooey”, and the prints went one. He had never been more discussed in his career. The gallery was packed that day, the journalists and their likes having settled in the very front for an exclusive take on the mastermind behind the painter’s work.

The gallery was freshly renovated to celebrate his own creations and that of many famous artists. The whole room was lit up by long rectangular acrylic lights that emitted a bright yet smooth bluish white glow. The walls were beige with regular size chinese letters written all over. Amazing, considering the fact that it was the entire novel of the late Lao Bei Fong. This alone set a calm, soothing atmosphere.

The painter walked in carrying his tools. He was rather serious and unimpressed by the commotion that started once he got in the room. He stood in front of a gold painting frame with a faded dark canvas, just as he had asked for. The frame was already attached to the wall where it will remain.

He stood quietly starring at the empty frame. A nervous young man provided him with a small stool. He didn’t bother to thank him; he waited until he left and got on. He started from the top, on the dark background. The room choked on its own silence. Occasionally, an uncomfortable noise would escape, but for the most part all was quiet. The painter was focused; he could do this in his sleep. He wasn’t quiet because he was concentrating; he was quiet because he was mad. Angry that he should break his “masterpiece” into step by step instructions so that people could fully understand him. He was upset that he was the puppet of his own show, like an entertainer on stage. And mostly offended that people don’t take the time to dissect his art and appreciate its meaning before tumbling at his door for an interpretation.

He used different materials to create a popping out effects. He was drawing a night shot of a busy wide street viewed from above. Part of a tall glass building was visible on the left corner to create the allusion of height.

The faces in the room were either amazed at time, tired, or indifferent. The painter looked at his work, looked at his dirty hands and considered the energy he had just wasted. He turned back and looked at the crowd.

Everyone got up from their seats and the room roared witch excitement and cheers.

“Be quiet!” he urged. I’m not done! He said leaning forward with a dumb expression on his face.”This is only the background!” Faced with this blatant ignorance he thought of leaving. “This painting has no meaning, he said pointing to what he had just done; it means nothing! Not to me at least! What does this mean to you? The room remained quiet.

He hurried over to his audience, found a boy around five year old and grabbed him by the neck. Everyone held their breath in shock. He lifted him off the ground, his hands and legs dangling about. A few people thinking he had lost his mind, tried to come close enough to help the boy. “Stand back” he yelled. He approached his painting, the poor boy now red trying helplessly to free himself. The Painter now directly in front of the canvas leaned slightly back and using the momentum and his body strength slammed the boy into the painting. The boy was captured perfectly in the painting, his horrified face, his eyes embedded with fear, his hands and legs reaching. The painting had now become a terrified boy falling from the top of a building onto a busy wide street. It was madly realistic!

The room stood petrified. The painter took his tools and disappeared as the door closed behind him.

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