White Apartments
A homeless artist sat quietly on the streets of a popular New York City square, his art strewn around him. The style was of Nitsch, organized yet existential splatters depicting the abstract and objects in bold colors on a blank canvas. A young woman on her way to and from work would pass him daily and admire his art and one day finally stopped to talk to him. She asked him his inspiration and he replied basically, "Life... Chaos..." She asked about his life and learned that he was homeless, that he could never make a living on his art. He dreamed that he would have enough someday to get a nice place where he could paint his masterpiece, his vision of the world. Having admired his work for months as she passed she decided to take a piece home and gave him a couple hundred dollars. In the following weeks she noticed that he had fewer paintings and he asked him how his paintings were selling and he said better and that he almost had enough to rent a small apartment in the city for a few months. She asked about the place and he replied, "It's small... concrete floors and square but the lighting is amazing... and the walls are so white. It's going to be beautiful." She smiled and said she'd love to see his work once he moved in. Weeks had gone by and finally she didn't see the painter anymore. She went to his usual corner in the square and left there was a small note with an address.
The long of the short - the lady went to the apartment at sunset. The door was cracked and she stepped inside. The light poured in and the once white walls were covered in paint in the same style as the artist's paintings. It didn't take her long to realize that it wasn't paint but blood. There was a note in the middle of the floor. "Some consider painting to be rehearsal for death... That art is the outward expression of the inner torment. Maybe it's true. But this torment was yours and your world's. Know now that I am free."
The long of the short - the lady went to the apartment at sunset. The door was cracked and she stepped inside. The light poured in and the once white walls were covered in paint in the same style as the artist's paintings. It didn't take her long to realize that it wasn't paint but blood. There was a note in the middle of the floor. "Some consider painting to be rehearsal for death... That art is the outward expression of the inner torment. Maybe it's true. But this torment was yours and your world's. Know now that I am free."