Sunday, April 20, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The Artist put down his brush. He looked at his painting and knew that it was finally finished. When his mind accepted his statement, he poured himself a drink. He drank while he painted and he drank the rest of the time too. He was happy that the painting was done as it was a bear, unwilling to succumb to his masterful hand. Many times he had wanted to throw the canvas on the fire but he pushed through and now was very satisfied with the resolve. The painting was a good one. It had lots of magic. He figured it had lot more than all the others he had painted.
The Artist poured himself another drink in his dark and cramped studio. He lived in a forgotten part of the city, and his work was never seen by the public. The painting before him was going to get him a lot of money or get him into a lot of trouble. He was getting too drunk to really care. He didn't paint for the money and he did not want trouble. He painted for the simple reason that he had to.
The Artist could only paint about three pictures a year. he worked odd jobs to make ends meet once the money from the paintings was gone. He tried to paint more than three but found the others to be trash, utterly without a trace of magic. So he settled for the three.
The Artist poured himself a drink and thought about the people who came to buy his paintings. Some of those people, the Artist thought, should not own one of his paintings. Of course, when they offer more money, he took it and gave them their prize. One time, the Artist refused the collector and burned the painting so no one could have it. That cost the Artist a third of his income and he almost starved that winter but he felt strangely good about it. The Artist knew that there were other artists like him who sold their work to the highest bidder. The Artist thought that letting his paintings and their magic into the hands of those who would not appreciate it a horrible crime. But that wasn't a crime. What was a crime was painting what the Artist painted. If the Artist was every caught by the Government there would not be a trial. The Artist would be swept away into the night and never be seen again. This would happen, even though the Artist lived in a great Democratic Society. Yet, in the face of all the danger, the artist still painted what he painted. He had to . He was a Doof Painter.