The artist was sleepy. It was nearly noon, but he had only been asleep for a few hours. The night before had stricken him with a mania about an idea. A concept which consumed him. It consumed his intellect, his emotions, and - of course - his time.
Earlier in the day, he had been in line to buy cigarettes, and a wretched smelling fellow was in line in front of him. It was all he could do to make space between them to escape the cloud of odor. It was foul, and very off-putting. The mangled ginger hair had formed ropes from the obvious lack of bathing. The man appeared to be in good spirits, but in that out of his mind kind of way. And to make matters worse, the store clerk (ok, actually there were two clerks), was incredibly slow, or incompetent, or both. So the artist stood there, making space, avoiding eye contact, escaping the smell, swapping facial gestures with a lady, who was also in the line, who was also trapped by the current predicament.
And even though this foul smelling man was hard to stand near, there was something intriguing about him. Who was he? What was his story? When the man finally got to the front of the line, he ordered two single servings of Fireball cinnamon whiskey. As if the man wasn't peculiar enough already - here he was procuring his medicine for the day, or the night, or the moment. And with the small funds he had available - mostly coins. Two small, fifty milliliter plastic bottles. Just the right amount?
The artist wondered if this was his regular habit? Or maybe this was a special occasion? Why Fireball? Did it represent something? Or remind him of something? It obviously wasn't to commemorate his latest bath or application of deodorant or cologne.
The entire episode might have lasted four or five minutes.
Yet, the experience was unusual in some way. It made an impression on the artist. And that impression stuck around for a while, circulating in his thoughts. In that common, but strange way, he didn't think about the experience much in the moment, consciously. But as he wandered home, it lingered. Who was that man? What was his story? What was his condition? So many things seemed to indicate he was down on his luck - yet his spirit appeared to remain intact. He was neither sad nor gloomy nor desperate. He was nearly giddy.
Upon returning to his apartment, the artist couldn't let the image of the man go. Not just the image of the man, but the image of the experience. The observation of this man. The wonder about the man and his story.
--
Two bourbons later, the artist was napping on his sofa. The soft sound of his snoring echoing through the halls of the old house that made up the apartment. As he slept, he experienced a lucid dream about being the companion of the smelly stranger. In his dream, he and the man were homeless colleagues who maintained a positive outlook on life. And they would find ways to hitch hike to this particular smoke and liquor shop to celebrate their life wins. A win was whenever either of them had something to celebrate. And that could be anything - a donation from a pedestrian, a birthday, good weather, a good night's sleep, whatever. Oddly, it wasn't something they discussed or defined criteria for. There was never a conversation about "Well, here's a list of times when we should celebrate". Rather, when the moment came, they seemed to both just know - now is a time to celebrate.
And celebrate meant finding a way to the liquor and smoke shop with whatever funds they could round up. Purchasing a pack of cheap cigarettes, and a bottle of Fireball whiskey. In his dream, they would drink the Fireball straight from the bottle. When his companion passed the bottle to him, he took a large swig of it - grinned at the flavor and the way it expanded like a balloon in his mouth. And then, suddenly, he woke up.
The sound of his roommate yelling at him roused him from his sleep. The effect of the bourbon was still present, though he now attributed its effect to the Fireball he consumed in his dream. His roommate continued until he responded with something like "Hey - what the fuck, man - I was sleeping!".
The artist's roommate was a young philanderer, who rolled through life like it was a skate park. He turned tricks and attempted to impress everyone at every opportunity. His virtue was his laid back style and attitude, which - generally - allowed the artist a lot of latitude in their living arrangement. At times, his roommate would become his muse. The artist was intrigued by his attitude toward life and the way he appeared to be in control of his own destiny. His roommate reliably seemed confident and self-assured, even in moments when the artist knew he was clearly out of his league. For instance, this one time they went out on a Friday night a little after one in the morning. For some reason, they both had ended their obligations early in the day, and napped through the late afternoon and into the evening. On waking, they both found home boredom to be more than they could stand.
They decided to walk to a nearby bar. It was a regular haunt, though lately they had tried to avoid the place as they didn't want to appear to settle for a local bar. They had an internal desire to be more out there, more adventurous. But the reality is that despite their desires, they were ultimately, also lazy. The local bar was only a few blocks from their apartment. And it wasn't much to speak of. Food consisted of pretzels in a bowl on the bar. Their best whiskey was Jim Beam. Their best beer was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Not that best particularly mattered to this pair. They were perfectly happy with the Jim Beam, and truly preferred cheap American lagers, such as Miller Lite. It wasn't that they thought these were the best tasting options. However, they relished the idea that they were cheap, and relished the cheapness of the experience. Certainly, if offered a better bourbon, they would have readily drank it. But on their own dime, this was more than adequate.
In any case, two Jim beams, and two Miller Lite's later, the artist's roommate was chatting up a young woman at the bar. The artist was slightly amused by this because he knew his roommate was drunk, and he could sense the young woman's equal enchantment and repulsion. It was like he could see that she was enamored with the drunk version of him, but could also anticipate his dire living condition, and even more dire life condition. The woman was attired in a chic grey dress, with attractive black short heels and a fair amount of makeup. She was likely in the same age range, but clearly from a different background; a different class. The artist wondered if she was merely having fun with his roommate; providing a sounding board for his cheap confessions and desperate advances. The artist had tried to reel his roommate in a few times - with offers of food, other bars, drink variations. But each was declined, quickly, and with subtlety. So the artist relented, and resigned himself to observer.
Ultimately, the lights came on and his roommate was abandoned, without even a phone number. His roommate's mood was dampened, but not exhausted. The alcohol and fervent conversation fueled his enthusiasm and confidence, and he begged to continue to pursue the night. The artist, never one to miss an action or a drama, conceded. They continued the escapade a few blocks down. The night, however, ended in a kind of bleakness. The roommate was not able to parlay his success at the new bar. And the artist had lost interest in observing his roommates defeat, and even more - had lost interest in continuing to drink through the night. It wasn't that he couldn't. He was simply tired from the emotional expense of observing his roommate through the evening. His mind had wandered through several fields which contained different ways of expressing his observations and analysis of his roommate's behavior and experience. Unfortunately, as entertaining as this mind exercise was - it wasn't enough to truly inspire him. And, so, the thoughts soon faded. Once they returned home, the artist succumbed to sleep - where Fireball made a second appearance in his dreams; though ill-defined and fleeting this time.
The next day, the artist awoke near to noon. His dreams from the night were vague, but maintained a presence somewhere in his memory. He could sense something about Fireball, though its meaning and purpose was lost in a fog. He wanted to think that stinky Fireball man, himself, had visited his unconscious during the night as well, but couldn’t find a breadcrumb from his dream memories that led back to him, other than the vague Fireball reference.
After a cup of coffee, the artist found himself motivated. The images of the fragrant ginger-dreadlocked stranger were still fresh in his memory. He could close his eyes and be right back in that moment. He was conflicted, though. In his recollection, he'd had a visceral reaction to the initial moment; it had raised the hair on his neck and made his nostrils flair. He had felt a sense of fear, a sense of unpredictability. But that perception was at odds with the happiness and joy, the rapid shifting of balance between legs - the way you might make a geometry compass walk, the near mania in his eyes.
Was this stranger some kind of crazy? Was he some kind of psycho? Was he some kind of derelict? It was impossible to tell. And the superposition of perceptions about him created a type of mania within the artist. It birthed an idea, a concept, a path. The artist was compelled to walk this path to see where it led. These were moments that gave the artist a rush. The opportunity, motivation, and means to create.
The idea was fairly simple, though he was confident it hadn’t been done before.
The concept only took a few minutes to sketch out. When his roommate awoke, the artist was starting to assemble the first canvas. His roommate had experienced this before, and knew not to interrupt or interject his opinion. So, he collected his keys and cigarettes, and exited without comment.
The artist was consumed with his work, and gave little notice to the roommate as he left.
The artist had never constructed a three dimensional painting before, and so was forced to address the issues related to not just brush strokes and color, but dimension and structure. He figured it would not be too difficult; however, his first idea of assembling a papier mache sculpture failed fantastically. Mostly because he was too impatient to let it dry and reach an appropriate level of rigidity. So, he was left with a mess of soggy materials that looked like nothing but soggy materials.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Eventually, he found a way to create a wireframe structure that he could attach to the canvas in a way that provided a foundation for the torso, arms, and head. He created his own papier mache-type material using canvas to cover the wireframe, and a mixture of glues, which resulted in a structural sculpture he could later paint.
Some areas gave him challenge, such as the facial features like nose, eyes, lips, and the ears. He found ways to stack and structure the glue and canvas to sculpt these details. He fell in particular love with the face he created. It evoked the giddy mood of the stranger.
The next challenge was the dreadlock hair. He had some initial thoughts on how to create these. Ultimately, though, he opted for authenticity.
The artist visited several wig shops until he found one with the appropriate shade and length. It wasn’t cheap, but he felt the cost and effort was important for his artistic integrity. With the wig home, he trimmed it a bit, and the started the “aging” process, as he thought of it. It was not unlike the way a chop house aged their premium steaks. Over time, he would fondle, add oil, and otherwise twist and contort the follicles. Eventually, the process worked, and he ended up with a wig of dreadlocks. It took at nearly 8 weeks to really look right.
The dreadlocks were not the last touch, but nearly. He had also to create the full torso section, including arms, and head, and ensure they made the impression he was looking for. He added real clothes, which disappeared into the canvas. The dreadlocks provided a significant boost in fidelity for his model. Although he never knew the strangers name, he had begun referring to his creation as “Jay”. In his mind it was short for James or Jason or something. But Jay wasn’t too concerned about which you thought it was; and he was certainly not worried if you spent the effort to vocally produce his full name or not.
The artist eventually spent several weeks on just this front torso view. Then, he turned his attention to the lower portion of Jay. He wasn’t certain Jay needed a lower half; or, if he did, what it would be. It seemed almost trivial to conceive of Jay’s conventional beginnings, to try and present Jay’s run-of-the-mill past. But still, he felt this was important. He didn’t know Jay’s background, but assumed that he had experienced some alternate life-path that was planted at birth, and which he followed for some time. The ultimate work would be a depiction of Jay’s transition from mundane to special. Thus, Jay’s lower half was something like legs in mundane second-hand pants and shoes. In order to ensure the contrast, the artist embellished the tattoos he remembered and extended them across Jay’s arms, torso, and a brief appearance above his neck line. These images provided an additional storyline for Jay.
The cout-de-tat was to induce the full experience for observers. This included a small addition of cinnamon whiskey and smoke “fragrance”, and a large addition of body odor. The artist would need to include instructions for how to maintain the fragrance, if it were ever properly displayed in a gallery, so that patrons could always get the right experience.
The entire project took a little more than four months. The finished work was intense, creepy, and invigorating. You couldn’t experience it and come away with a mild impression. You either loved it, hated it, or didn’t want to ever see it again.
The artist, himself, ended up with mixed feelings about the work. He wanted it to represent his perception of the man he had come to call Jay. But, really, the work was a complacent and safe expression of a mundane experience. What was it about Jay he wanted to express? Ultimately, he didn’t know. He only knew he wanted to share that initial moment with others.
This perspective haunted him a bit. He wanted to intimately identify with the work. However proud he was of his effort and the result, he still felt that it was foreign, alien. When he observed it, he felt the presence of the original moment; but he wasn’t sure anyone else would get what he was trying to convey.
And, after all, what was he trying to convey? Certainly, his audience would get the visual and dimensional expression, and definitely, they would get the odiferous impression. But was that it? Was that enough? Really, it wasn’t. He was trying to convey something deeper. Something about the contrast, the fight that existed within Jay. He wanted people to smell the stench, but see the joy, to repel at the look, but pity Jay’s past potential. He was afraid that it was all too safe, and too complex.
But what could he do at this point? The work was complete. He wasn’t going to redo it, or destroy it. He had learned long before that you cannot work backwards, only forwards. And this work had reached the end of the road. There was little more he could do. It was either complete or a waste of paint or both.
What he wanted was to present the opportunity for others to experience the transition from disgust to wonder they way he had done. From initial repugnance, to a final interest in who this human was, and how his story went. But he feared that most only experienced the repugnance, and never veered into the tunnel of wonder, of interest, of intrigue.
***
And then the artist was distraught. This creation, this expression, was complete, but disappointing. Unfulfilling. Embarrassing. He wanted to destroy it. It was a poor representation of his concept.
But, like a mother, he still loved his ugly offspring.
And he lost himself.
And he despaired.
But what to do? Could he share this expression, as flawed as it was? How could he send this creation out into the world? Without ridicule?
And what would they say? Would they accept it? Would they accept him?
And what if they didn’t? Where would he be then?
And bourbon and bourbon and bourbon.
And these moments are the moments when the artist lost himself in the ground. His body and his soul sunk below the earth. He lost his identity.
And these moments are the moments when the fairies enter his mind. They whisper the despicable things that haunt and infect his thoughts. They infect his emotion. They rob him of his motivation. Their tiny hands hold him down, and steal his affinities.
And soon. Soon, these moments are the moments, when he loses his motivation to live. And why shouldn’t he? Who should march forward in these circumstances... in which his soul has been trampled by virtual angels? And so, the belt. The ledge. The door jam. These all become like magnets. Their pull is insatiable.
The artist makes a loop from his belt. He ties a knot in the other end. He tests it on the door jamb of the bathroom. Be he loses his motivation, again.
A voice in his head is saying something. It sounds like a whisper and a boom at the same time. He can’t quite make out what it’s saying. But in his gut, he feels something. It’s a gravity pulling his stomach toward the ground, tugging his heart along with it.
There’s still bourbon in the bottle. So he pours. And he pours. And he pours. And then he is asleep. And then he is dreaming. About his work. And the people hate it. In his dream, a man walks up to it, evaluates it for a moment, then opens his trousers and urinates on it. A woman is nearby, yelling at the work. Calling it obscene. Calling it exploitative. Calling it a reflection of the modern relative morality of the world. In his dream, the artist tries to protect the work; but ultimately, he is also the receiver of excrement and curses. Then the artist is naked next to the work, while the crowd has gone. He is exposed. And he is frightened. And he is concerned for his safety. And he isn’t sure how to move from this moment. He steals the dreadlocks, and uses them as a makeshift fig leaf covering his genitals as he seeks his next shelter. On the street, he tries to make his way home with his dreadlock genital cover, but his accusers find him and follow him. They shout doubts and criticisms at him. He doesn’t understand the language and words, but he understands the intent. He is ashamed.
The artist awakes, drenched in sweat. The dream still fresh and vivid in his mind and his emotions. He stares at his creation in the room. Its silhouette in shadows from the nightlight on his wall. He loves it, but it frightens him. It is like his Frankenstein’s Monster. He has given it life. But he’s sure the people will want to burn his abomination.
The artist also takes pity on his creation. He stares at it, he adores its presence. He absorbs its intentions, its emotions. He sees through it. He remembers the original experience.
In that moment, when he is considering his sub-masterpiece, his roommate wanders into the room and offers perspective. “What the fuck is that thing supposed to be? Some kind of Prometheus? It looks like a Fraggle on crack.”
And so, without notice, the artist rouses himself from his bed. He walks to the kitchen to find an average steak knife. And back to his bedroom. His roommate is still there, gazing confusingly at the monstrosity. And the artist, without emotion, severs Jay’s head from the work. It falls to the floor with a dramatic thump and roll. His roommate is motionless. The artist slashes the sides of the canvas, creating deep gashes beside Jay’s arms. The artist slices Jay’s hands, and they too fall to the floor. The artist mocks fucking Jay in the ass in the alternate work. And as he does, he stabs the knife into the sculpture of Jay’s ass. He slices across to remove the legs. And his roommate is now frightened, and intrigued, and amused. He wants to laugh, but isn’t sure that that the artist won’t slice him next with the knife. So his besmirched faced is all that exists in the eerie silence of the moment.
When the artist is done, he falls back into the bed. Emotionally exhausted, but excited by the moment; excited by the adrenalin. He feels both dead, and able to take on anything. But. mostly, numb.
A brief moment of rush and energy pulls him up from his bed, and he grabs the remaining canvas and torso and slams it against the wall, and his knee, and the bed, until it’s only a mangled mess with dangling body parts and fractured frame. His roommate remains speechless.
Eventually the artist mutters something about integrity and cause. The roommate is still afraid and not sure what to make of the moment. He simply nods in agreement. The artist stares blankly at him, and then rotates his head to hide his face in a pillow, and maintains this posture long enough for the roommate to feel uncomfortable still being in the room. His roommate leaves. The artist wants to cry. But the emotion isn’t there. He was never that close to this creation to lament its demise. So his emotion dries up, and he’s left bereft of emotion and motivation.