For Art's Sake
(Ljidol entry)
“You hate art.” Ann declares loudly. I disagree, I like art, I just don’t like her art.
“What is it?” I don’t like to have to ask this, Ann is sensitive, but honestly I don’t know if it is supposed to be a black orchid or a smear or grease or a shapeless nightmare creature.
“It’s awful huh?” Ann bites her bright pink lower lip and glances down at the apartment floor. Ann has been my best friend for seven years, she is wonderful. I honestly cannot think of enough good things to say about her, but I can think of one bad thing to say about her, she is a terrible painter.
“No it’s….different.” This is not a lie. It is different, but it’s also kind of…bad.
Later that morning Ann leaves for work, I’m off so I stay home. At some point I go back to looking at the painting. I pick it up and half sigh; I just don’t know what to make of it. As I’m holding it I notice that there is some very small text in the bottom left corner. Ann never signs her work. I squint at it and finally make out three words: My Last Painting.
Six months later it’s my birthday. Ann made me a cake when I got home. She’s always doing things like that for people, being thoughtful. We cut the cake and sit down. She keeps badgering me about what I want for my birthday, and I keep telling her that making me a cake was enough. Ann isn’t satisfied with this and for the rest of the evening on and off she keeps teasing me about how I have to want something.
After dinner we are watching television, I get distracted during the commercials and end up looking over at the corner where all her paint brushes and paints and canvases have just been sitting there, unused, neatly packed up. It occurs to me that she hasn’t been the same since she stopped painting. She hasn’t been quite…I don’t know…
Before I go to bed she asks me again about what I want for my birthday. I stop and think for a second and then I answer.
“Paint me something.”
“You hate art.” Ann declares loudly. I disagree, I like art, I just don’t like her art.
“What is it?” I don’t like to have to ask this, Ann is sensitive, but honestly I don’t know if it is supposed to be a black orchid or a smear or grease or a shapeless nightmare creature.
“It’s awful huh?” Ann bites her bright pink lower lip and glances down at the apartment floor. Ann has been my best friend for seven years, she is wonderful. I honestly cannot think of enough good things to say about her, but I can think of one bad thing to say about her, she is a terrible painter.
“No it’s….different.” This is not a lie. It is different, but it’s also kind of…bad.
Later that morning Ann leaves for work, I’m off so I stay home. At some point I go back to looking at the painting. I pick it up and half sigh; I just don’t know what to make of it. As I’m holding it I notice that there is some very small text in the bottom left corner. Ann never signs her work. I squint at it and finally make out three words: My Last Painting.
Six months later it’s my birthday. Ann made me a cake when I got home. She’s always doing things like that for people, being thoughtful. We cut the cake and sit down. She keeps badgering me about what I want for my birthday, and I keep telling her that making me a cake was enough. Ann isn’t satisfied with this and for the rest of the evening on and off she keeps teasing me about how I have to want something.
After dinner we are watching television, I get distracted during the commercials and end up looking over at the corner where all her paint brushes and paints and canvases have just been sitting there, unused, neatly packed up. It occurs to me that she hasn’t been the same since she stopped painting. She hasn’t been quite…I don’t know…
Before I go to bed she asks me again about what I want for my birthday. I stop and think for a second and then I answer.
“Paint me something.”