He was sitting in a soft crimson armchair, emitting clouds of smoke into the dark candle-lit room. Unlike other days the light seemed particularly cold and cruel that night. The Moon had turned pink. The Wind had turned silent. The Leaves had turned green. He got the message loud and clear. He had to do better next time.
A light cloud of smoke hugged the dim room. Thin fingers combed through dull ash hair. Were there any paints left? He would usually feel relieved after a dose of life-saving nicotine had been delivered to his blooming lungs but that night was different. Would he ever be diagnosed with something life-threatening? Something that could completely destroy him? Free him? He closed his eyes and grazed over a never-fading scar on his pale cheek. He lost. Like a complete idiot. They made sure he knew his place. All the talk about free will and…What a bunch of hypocrites.
More. If only the smoke could choke him. It’s not like he hadn’t tried… He was desperate to get lost in the white clouds and never find a way out. He wished to be swallowed by the white abyss and burn in the fires of doom. He longed to be disposed of like a cigarette butt. Crushed. Stomped. Tossed. Left to decay on its own. Under the blanket of fallen leaves that would have concealed his scars, he would slowly rot on the damp ground. All this time his mind would be occupied with no one but…and through never-ending tears his gaze would follow the last nightingale in the land. Soft chirping would caress his ears and kindly remind of the last words omitted that night many years ago. The words that had been plaguing him for eternity. He would pray for salvation knowing perfectly well there was no one to save him.
Did I ever have a choice?
Only dead silence dared to answer his question. They would not say a word. Not ever since that day. He used to hear their voices amid all the music in the air. And to think he was the chosen one! Did he really hope he could change anything? Bring peace? Improve lives? Not a sound. Power was never his to begin with. He was nothing but a pawn in the game of those who were being prayed to. They dared call themselves Gods. Or were we the ones who entitled them to this title? Behaviour?
He exhaled more smoke into the stuffy room. Working part-time as a living embodiment of the wrath of Gods was tough. He was more famous than any influencer could ever hope to be. He could push any product if he set his heart to it. Slimming herbs? New you-will-become-a-billionaire-overnight currency? East or West VPN? Lip balm that had changed his life and turned him into a smoking hot da… You name it - he’ll sell it. Don’t forget to use the promo code ‘GuiltyPleasure96’ at the checkout! However, he wasn’t really an influencer as you may have noticed. He did have influence over certain people and it was way more genuine than a cardboard cutout of a person wrapping a box full of commission in the care-pattern paper.
He lit his you are forbidden to count yet another cigarette. The warm tobacco scent made its way into every nook and cranny of the much dreaded study. He looked at the pile of papers on his desk. Paper-pusher. Rule-pusher. Cliff…. Was that the real punishment? Some days it seemed to him that filing all the documents was more cruel than being destined to live a life full of wishes that would never come true. However, he felt like a human when he vented on paperwork. But he would never admit it because this man had his pride. Useless, but present.
Speaking about pride, he used to be the talk of the town, the ripest cherry on the most exquisite cake and the freshest wind on the stuffiest day. Yes, everyone knew him and everyone aspired to be him. Will I ever forget the smell of a drying portrait? Artist - that’s what he used to be. His face was on the covers of all magazines imaginable: from fashion to cooking, from renovation to transport. His enigmatic eyes wouldn’t leave anyone untouched. His intense artistry was haunting every market on the planet. And as someone who would never sell out but would like to be sold at the highest price, he acquired a pretty solid reputation as a renowned painter. His name was like a beehive - there was always so much buzz about it (Note: this simile was originally used by the artist himself. The author has nothing to do with it). Despite all the positive press the journalists were giving him, he wasn’t on good terms with the men of a pen. Their snarky commentary was a threat to his pieceful life, although it was never directed at him or his art.
The longer he smoked, the longer he lived. Why thinking about the old days makes you reject the current you? Back in the day his portraits were referred to as ‘a bridge between the human desires and the divine’1, ‘a mirror which reflects a melody of one’s soul’2 and ‘a chest of drawers which stored all the junk someone was trying to hide from the world’3. Nothing escaped the sharp gaze of a born-to-be artist. His ingenious portraits were constant residents of top galleries. Collectors from all over the world forget about their dignity and good manners to get closer to owning a painting which could and would shake their existing consumeristic thoughts and set their existence to a bigger fortune. His art changed people’s fates and numbers in their bank accounts. Any report on a clean-handed CEO in whose possession was a highly-praised portrait would make the stock prices rise as quickly as a hyperactive child on a sugar rush, chasing gummy bears. Not only were people with the life-savings which could last at least for twenty generations making a fortune, but the artist himself was making a decent living (which could last for fewer generations…a lot fewer). He was living a high life on the last floor of the tall apartment building in the heart of the city.
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Quick! Quiz! Cue!
1) How do you call a flat on the highest floor of an apartment building?
1. a) a pentuphouse;
2. b) a penthouse;
3. c) a pentagram;
4. d) a pentagon.
Normal people would answer b - a penthouse. But the artist was no ordinary person. He was brilliant, creative and intelligent. So, he used to call his flat a ‘pentagram’.
Quick! Quiz! Cue!
2) Why did the famous artist refer to his apartment as a ‘pentagram’?
1. Because he was e x t r e m e l y creative and no one could get a drift of his thoughts;
2. Because he fell on his head a few time more than he should have when he was little;
3. Because he had an unhealthy obsession with graham crackers;
4. All of the above.
Drum roll, please! The answer is…we don’t have to go through this. Everything is as clear as day. Although he loved his place, it never fully felt like home. No matter what vases and Tom-Afford style coffee table books he bought, nothing could lighten up the concrete cell he put himself in. Not even design classes on shareaskill were of any help. (use the promo code ‘GUILTYPLEASURE96’, all caps at the checkout for a discount! Yes, it is affiliated. Help the struggling artist!). Neither were his paintings that interestingly enough transformed any other house into a home.
His aching scar pulled him out of the thoughts about the past. Smoke could only numb his feelings but not the physical pain which was getting sharper and sharper day by day. There was no doubt they were tormenting him. The memories of unattainable bliss were deeply carved into his loveless soul. And there was no better company than cigarettes to comfort him.
That night many moons ago had changed him forever. He went from being a lucky charm and an adored prodigy of the Masters to an artistically-unstable painter whose works ‘felt like a stale biscuit that even mould was afraid to touch’4 . His life was like one of a novel's character when everything in their life went downhill - except he wasn’t in a work of fiction nor did he have a chance for a happy ending. Everyone in the world of art had turned their backs on him. He was stripped of the respect and admiration. All his paintings lost their value - from that moment on the mostly honest CEO’s donated all the paintings to art academies where professors could frown at sloppy brush strokes, ridicule the childish composition and squirm with embarrassment at themselves for considering a useless cloth art. To add insult to injury, if there were any reports on someone holding onto the shameful works, they would immediately become a laughing-stock. Unfortunately, there was no way any broker could predict when their stocks would go back to normal. While some nursed their millions, the artist was fighting to get his life back. But no one could hear him. As if there were a filter which sifted through all the concerns and left nothing but empty words of politeness.
Even if he was no longer a sought-after artist, he still held his worn-out brushes proudly. A white see-through ribbon stretched across the room as if inviting invisible guests to have a tour. However, it wasn’t an ordinary gallery with bleached walls, soft light and minimalistic furniture which housed those who mainly saw investment in the displayed pieces. These paintings with no space in between the frames served more as wallpaper than statements. No one in their right mind would stop to decipher the artist’s complicated message about the shallowness and cruelty of people’s nature. There wouldn’t be debates about the main metaphor and which philosophical movement was being ridiculed. But one look at a painting of a bird and anyone in that land would get consumed by pity. The fallen artist was still trying to make it. Isn't it pathetic?
From the day of the burning leaves people had never visited his canvas. Instead of pointy noses there were beaks, instead of long arms - wings and instead of smart dresses and suits - feathers. If someone asks you to imagine a painting of a bird, what would you think of? A flying bird? Birds? A bird in the tree? In the cage? These could turn out great, but our artist wasn’t that simple. His birds could do anything from participating in The Last Supper to commanding troops. But there was one bird which didn’t have to do anything. It just was there. It existed, it lived and it breathed. Against the bright blue sky and among the soft pink sakura a plump bullfinch was resting. It mounted right behind the ex-artist’s desk, taking the best spot from its contestants.
There were no more cigarettes in the pack. Light footsteps were approaching the study. They stopped. Uncertain.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Pause.
Knock.
The door creaked. Rotting fog smashed the glasses. Too weak. A little head squeezed through the narrow gap.
‘Mr…’
Still uncertain.
‘Yes?’
‘You have a meeting with the head of the Pine Committee in two hours. Have you received all the documents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you studied them or have you looked through them?’
‘Neither.’
The little head shook in disapproval.
‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. They never take me seriously anyway.’
‘Mr…’, he knew what the bearer of that little head was about to say. ‘Yes, I will air the room. Now go and do whatever you are supposed to do.’
‘I take you seriously… Mr Ghilt.’
‘I know, Lilly. That’s why you must run away from this place.’
The door slightly closed. The room wouldn't be aired for another hour and thrirty minutes.
Table of Contents
1) Silverfork M. (20XX) 'The paints that never dry', Vanity Unfair, 24 February, pp.20-22.
2) Righter Ch. (20XX) 'Brushed', The Old Yo-ker, 16 March, pp.97-98.
3) Land N. (20XX) 'Colours that expose injustice', The Floor Street Journal, 15 September, pp.27-28.
4) just raddit.
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