Last sketch.

“I am me and they are them. They cannot use me as their shortcut, nor I they for my ignorance. But we are all imperfect, and all on our own journey. I can only guide.”

Now, in his last chapter of life, the artist sits. Patiently waiting. For death.

The days and weeks are mostly long and boring hours. His receded gray hairs still occasionally fall into his lap. Mostly as periodic reminders of the destination. The final destination.

Those hairs were not the only reminders, however. Something had happened in these final years, final months. His work, largely forgotten or lost, was suddenly being rediscovered. This was fine for the hoards of fans and collectors. However, there was another - much smaller - group. Well, perhaps not a group. For convenience, we might call them a group, but it was really just a bunch of unassociated individuals. These were the students of his art.

To his horror, he discovered that many of them had studied his works, and set out to duplicate them as part of their training. The idea of another person, recreating his own works. It made no sense to him. They could only ever hope to copy his technique or style. But they could never copy his intention, his inner need to create that particular work. It wasn't something that could be taught, or even expressed in a way that made any sense to any other person.

But now, here they were. Creating their own approximations, their own shells of his work. Some exhibited remarkable technique, and exquisite colors. But all suffered the same error of showing only the shell of his work. It was like looking at a snake skin or cicada shell. You could see the visual essence of the snake or the cicada, but there was no substance. A mild wind would send the skin or shell surfing over the grass and dirt.

Seeing their works led to an array of emotions. He was always stricken by how technically competent many of them were. It embarrassed him that their technique was so much better than his own. Or their mastery of color. Their approaches to his three-dimensional works was also strange to witness. Each seemed to be attempting to "out do" his original piece. And they succeeded in this way, but missed the subtlety and innocence of what the artist had created.

Oh. And they always wanted to meet him. They all wanted to praise his genius. They wanted to explain how his art had changed their lives. He wanted to tell them all that they should have just killed themselves long ago. But he didn't. He retained that entertainment for himself, inside his imagination.

The meeting was always a shit show. They could come in. Praise his color mixing, give their interpretations of his composition. The worst part was that they wanted to talk and talk and explain their process, and how they created the color, and how they began, and how much time it took, and on and on. They were all narcissistic, driven mad by their own compulsions.

The artist would try his best to retain his own patience. And he would try his best to explain to them the approach or meaning, and how it had relatively little to do with actual painting or whatever. He was glad that they all experienced something in his art. But what he was trying to tell them is that they needed to experience something when creating their own art. And, as none of them were him, it was strange to see their interpretation, of his interpretation, of his own experience. He already knew that experience. He had already documented it in his art. He didn't want to see their bland attempt at explaining his own life to him. Instead, he wanted to see what they wanted to say. He wanted to know what they had experienced themselves; originally.

***

During his last days, he received a caller who he assumed to be another of his ripoff fans. He figured he could maybe last through this one today. He had psyched himself up a bit with a brief meditation. He told himself to let the narcissist talk as much as they wanted; it was a way to make them feel like he was really listening to them. If they asked a specific technical question, he would fake forgetfulness.

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But this caller was different. He could see that when she walked in. She didn't look the part, for starters. And she was calm, not overly excited.

"I know you", she said.

He tried to search his memory, but couldn't identify this person.

"You do?", he replied. Still trying to determine who she was. Maybe the daughter of a friend or something.

"Yes, I know you.", she repeated.

"Have we met? Do I know your parents or something?", the confused artist offered.

The girl smiled and smirked and made a small happy sound.

"Oh, I mean, it's nothing like that. We've never met - at least not in person.", she said.

"But you know me?"

She had brought a large purse or bag in with her. It looked to be pretty stuffed. From inside the bag, she retrieved a fairly large 8" x 10" framed mirror. She held the mirror up to the artist.

"What do you see?"

The artist sighed. "I see me?"

"Exactly. And you know yourself, right?"

He didn't reply to this.

"When I see you, the artist, it is like looking into a mirror for me. Obviously, I'm not an aging white male - but that isn't what I see when I look at you."

The artist let his shoulders slump a bit. This was a new spin on the crazy fan episode. But he let it play on.

"Ok. Mmm. What do you see?", he gave in to her leading statement.

"I see myself. Just like when you see yourself in the mirror. Not the specific light reflecting your physical look; but something else, something deeper within you. Your existence, your essence, your being."

"And so you think you know me because of that?", he asked.

"It's not like that. It's not like a deja vu where you aren't sure what's happening, and the sensation goes away pretty quickly. No, this is more like having a special secret number, or phrase, or limerick - one that is unique to yourself, and then seeing someone else who has the exact same number, or phrase, or limerick."

"Well, ok. Great. What can I do for you? Do you want an autograph or something?"

She smiled and smirked again. And again let out a small happy sound.

"It's nothing like that at all. I don't really want anything from you at all. I simply wanted - " ... she paused, looking shyly down at her shoes... - " I simply wanted to meet you. I wanted this experience right here."

That seemed to soften him up a bit.

"So you're an artist?", he inquired.

"Of sorts."

He loathed and loved this response all at once. It was a way of expressing his own artistic intentions when he was much younger. He liked the way it separated him from the other "painters", and "sculptors", and so on. He suspected she did as well.

"And you've seen my art, and are certain that you know me because of it?"

"Well, yes. For most works, I can see the structure and composition, I can see the colors and the shapes and the techniques. For a few works, I can get an emotional sense of what the work is conveying. But the thing is, with your works, I don't get much of that. Instead, I get a sense of who you are, or were, and why you made that particular work. It's almost like a psychic ability to look deeper, or backward in time, to when you created the work, and being able to explicitly understand."

"Well, I still don't really understand why you are here. It's a nice superstition you have, but you don't know me. No one knows me. I hardly know myself. And as much as I would love for my expression to translate so seamlessly into your brain and your heart, that's just not something that happens."

"I know about the Jesus painting.", she said.

This statement put him on edge, but also drew him in.

"Haha", he laughed uncomfortably at this.

"You may think you know, but you don't". He laughed into a cough.

"I have it.", she said.

"What the... how the fuck could you have it? It was destroyed."

In his laughter, he looked at the girl again. Who was she? Why was she here? What kind of game was this?

"I have a present for you", she said with a grimace.

The artist just looked at her. She pulled a gift-wrapped box from her bag and handed it to him.

The wrapping paper was black with a pattern of lit cigarettes on it. Each lit tip had a small waft of smoke rising up.

This paper did amuse him, even as he tore it from the box it enshrouded. He opened the box, and just stared for a moment.

Inside was a belt. The kind with double D-rings for the buckle, and clearly made from premium materials. It looked like military grade nylon or something. When he looked up, her head was down.

Several minutes seemed to pass as he looked at the belt, and at the girl, and at the room.

"Uhm. Thank you.", he said, finally.

The voice appeared briefly: ”Destiny. Uncle is waiting.”

In his mind, the artist noted this comment.

The girl stood up, gathering her bag. She made the few steps toward the door to leave. With one hand on the doorknob, she looked back at the artist.

"You're welcome...", she said, somewhat sheepishly this time. She hurried out the door, and was gone before he could say anything else. He did, however, notice as the door shut behind her... on the back of her left calf. A tattoo. Something familiar.

THE END