Original - The day the nightmare began
Title: The day the nightmare began.
Author: semisweetsoul
Rating: G
Prompt: #152 vernissage @ tamingthemuse
Summary: An art opening through the artist's eye.
Word Count: 661
A/N: I wish I had more time, but somehow this week passed so fast!
The day the nightmare began
One day, he decided to try. Knowing inspiration required a particular awareness; he looked and listened attentively, paying close attention even to the slightest detail. He used to take advantage of that moment, when out of nowhere something inside him guided his brush on the canvas. He could close his eyes and picture the lines and shapes and the painting coming into life. Inspiration followed no pattern. It could strike in the middle of the night, at the break of dawn or at nightfall. A sentiment of omnipotence invaded his being, making him believe that nothing would resist him. When it left him, he fell back to that state of feeling insignificant, one in a billion. He waited, and waited, lamenting his fate, until he realized it was all in his hand. Without his hand, none of the splendors surrounding him would exist. He just needed a push to continue, something to trigger his desire to create.
He cut himself from the world. In the safety of his home, where no one else watched, he stayed alone, refused to see his friends and family. He lived when everyone else slept and slept when everyone else lived. He did not see another way to communicate with the ideals he was compelled to portray.
Perhaps people thought his sanity was questionable, unless they believed he was scared of the outside world, phobic to the extreme, panicked near those of his kind, only at peace in his forced retreat. A mistake. He needed people. They were the reason he did what he did. Like any artist, he craved attention, and the social recognition his art entailed; the feeling of usefulness he had been running after since he had accepted this wicked gift. For days, and weeks and months and years, he produced. He threw away a lot only to keep what he considered the best, until the day it ended.
The day the nightmare began.
He had to present his work. For those who believed in him, it was the turning point. He knew he might never recover. Handing over one’s creation was the dreaded moment, as all artists grasped, the writer handing over his manuscript, the singer his music, the film director the roll of film. It felt like his work died in his heart and mind only to come alive again stronger and stranger in the public eye.
He hated those viewings. Not many people present came for the exposition itself. Most of the attendees came to be seen, journalists came to write articles, which in the end would revolve around who showed up and who did not, while the vast majority had come to relish in champagne and canapés. None of them bothered to remember his name.
He told them when he explained he did not want to be there, adding that the mystery around the artist would cause sensation and attract more people. They made him understand he had no choice. Therefore, he came.
He settled in a little corner, and started drawing. As the night progressed and the colors filled his canvas, he noticed how no one had asked him who he was and what he was doing. Did they even know they were supposed to be admiring or at least watching his work? The absurdity of the situation and the feeling of anger their ignorance built inside him made it easier.
He left and changed and came back.
He appeared from behind the scene, before their eyes. Those eyes would decide of the fertility of his retreat in creative anguish. He did his best but who decided of a masterpiece? Observing his work with a critical look, he wandered in the alleys, shook hands, smiled confident and victorious smiles, and received praises and criticism with a judicious combination of relief and interest.
He took advantage of the situation to expose that last minute sketch. When this piece made it to the gallery, everyone agreed it was his chef-d'oeuvre.
The End
Author: semisweetsoul
Rating: G
Prompt: #152 vernissage @ tamingthemuse
Summary: An art opening through the artist's eye.
Word Count: 661
A/N: I wish I had more time, but somehow this week passed so fast!
The day the nightmare began
One day, he decided to try. Knowing inspiration required a particular awareness; he looked and listened attentively, paying close attention even to the slightest detail. He used to take advantage of that moment, when out of nowhere something inside him guided his brush on the canvas. He could close his eyes and picture the lines and shapes and the painting coming into life. Inspiration followed no pattern. It could strike in the middle of the night, at the break of dawn or at nightfall. A sentiment of omnipotence invaded his being, making him believe that nothing would resist him. When it left him, he fell back to that state of feeling insignificant, one in a billion. He waited, and waited, lamenting his fate, until he realized it was all in his hand. Without his hand, none of the splendors surrounding him would exist. He just needed a push to continue, something to trigger his desire to create.
He cut himself from the world. In the safety of his home, where no one else watched, he stayed alone, refused to see his friends and family. He lived when everyone else slept and slept when everyone else lived. He did not see another way to communicate with the ideals he was compelled to portray.
Perhaps people thought his sanity was questionable, unless they believed he was scared of the outside world, phobic to the extreme, panicked near those of his kind, only at peace in his forced retreat. A mistake. He needed people. They were the reason he did what he did. Like any artist, he craved attention, and the social recognition his art entailed; the feeling of usefulness he had been running after since he had accepted this wicked gift. For days, and weeks and months and years, he produced. He threw away a lot only to keep what he considered the best, until the day it ended.
The day the nightmare began.
He had to present his work. For those who believed in him, it was the turning point. He knew he might never recover. Handing over one’s creation was the dreaded moment, as all artists grasped, the writer handing over his manuscript, the singer his music, the film director the roll of film. It felt like his work died in his heart and mind only to come alive again stronger and stranger in the public eye.
He hated those viewings. Not many people present came for the exposition itself. Most of the attendees came to be seen, journalists came to write articles, which in the end would revolve around who showed up and who did not, while the vast majority had come to relish in champagne and canapés. None of them bothered to remember his name.
He told them when he explained he did not want to be there, adding that the mystery around the artist would cause sensation and attract more people. They made him understand he had no choice. Therefore, he came.
He settled in a little corner, and started drawing. As the night progressed and the colors filled his canvas, he noticed how no one had asked him who he was and what he was doing. Did they even know they were supposed to be admiring or at least watching his work? The absurdity of the situation and the feeling of anger their ignorance built inside him made it easier.
He left and changed and came back.
He appeared from behind the scene, before their eyes. Those eyes would decide of the fertility of his retreat in creative anguish. He did his best but who decided of a masterpiece? Observing his work with a critical look, he wandered in the alleys, shook hands, smiled confident and victorious smiles, and received praises and criticism with a judicious combination of relief and interest.
He took advantage of the situation to expose that last minute sketch. When this piece made it to the gallery, everyone agreed it was his chef-d'oeuvre.
The End