The Madness in the Painting

I can't tell when this happened or even if it did happen. All I know, and that is not a lot, is that I still live with the painting. Sure, by the end of this you'll ask me why and I can't blame you; I'll ask you this, can you cut off your own arm? Then again, if your arm was driving you mad, you might be able to; I could not. I still can't.

It was late one night, cold outside and snow was on the ground. It appeared as an angel's wing over the world; a fresh smell of the white that saved us from darkness. It was the first day of winter and what an icy winter it was going to be; I was enjoying it. The cold slows the world down just a little. People are less likely to travel out and they find themselves staying in more often. I like this, because they don't come knocking at my door. When they knock I open the red door to my studio and they ask to come in and I yell for them to leave. They want to see the next painting that’s going to set the world on fire, but I don't paint those kind of pictures. I paint canvas that only sets me on fire. They leave angry calling me mad; how right they are. I am mad, but what artist isn't? We spend hours in our minds, locked away form the world, painting it the way we want it to be only to find out that it's never going to be like the colors on the canvas. I'm sure, though many artists would never tell you, they weep when they realize the world they painted is not real and never will be.

That night, however, I did paint something that would set the world on fire. Sadly, no one would every see it.

A canvas that was once a door, how fitting, I would think to myself, every time my large brush would hit the wood. I spent days working on priming the surface to make it perfect. Sometimes leave spots where the wood would show through to soak up the oils in the paint. A trained eye would be able to see the difference but to everyone else it was just paint. I would sit there looking at it, thinking about every mark and continue to rethinking about it. Walking around the walls of the door, making sure it was right and when it was, I would destroy it to make it right again. It takes time to make something perfect, and only after you destroy it can you make it perfect again.

Hours fell from the clock as I bled the green onto the wood, with a hint of deep blues. Then mixing in some of the orange-yellowish hue, only to paint over it with a muddy purple. Cutting out veins of the paint under it that I like, pulling them through painfully to show their brightest and beating back the parts I hate in the monster at the center of the door. The red marks running down it forming a line, a broken line, a trademark of my new work; a mark that I'm unsure I like. But the painting was done, as done as art ever can be. I was sure that in the morning I would have killed the soul in the paint, only to start over again. It’s a ritual that had been falling over me as of late.

I stepped out, putting the wool coat around me, and stood outside to smoke some bad tobacco out of my old pipe. I watched the snow fall onto the trees, taking in the icy air, before returning to my work. The room was full of oily smells and bright haunting colors. I stepped back to look at the work I just made only to see something different in it; something I was afraid of. Something that was horrible to me.

I stared, wishing to the Father above that it would fade from my eyes. I prayed that someone would come and take me from this sight but no one every came.

All the dreams of all the evil deeds done to me by myself and others, rushed from that mark, that one little red mark outlined in yellow with a dot of purple at the center of it. It spoke to me, reminding me of all the hatred inside me. The rage I felt and the blood-lust that warps my mind every time I saw the red. After all, I painted it with the idea of killing every painting it touched; as if the red was the mark of Death. But this red was different.

I yelled, “Why are you here?” only to hear the whispers of the demons next to me. They taunted me with every thing, every face, every act, every time I was hurt. I could not run, trust me I tried, but my legs would not move. So I cried, “What do you want?” A question I which I had never asked before.

The words were quick and to the point; I was quick to reply, “I can’t do that.”

Their answer was just as you could imagine, “But you can.” I fought back with, “That is not who I am.”

Or was it me? There was a part of me that was agreeing with the red mark. In the candle light, I was that man in the darkness; I was who it said I was. I knew that. I knew somewhere deep down, I could do it; out of passions, out of rage, but most of all, out of agony. So it spoke to me again and again. And I yelled, screamed, cried, “That is not who I am.” But my will was failing me. I was giving in fast and there was no way out of the hole. I fought to push my head above the raging ocean around me but something was pulling me down into the depths of the red. Soon, it would eat me alive.

“No,” I begged at the foot of the painting, “don't make me do it.” But it was going to make me.

I can not tell you how the knife got into my hand or when I picked up the paint brush; all I know is the blade was wanting to taste blood, the sweet life-giving red in all of us. I turned my head looking at the door, wondering what would happen if I stepped out. Would someone’s red paint bleed onto my sliver brush? Would I make a painting like never before, a painting that the world would stop and look at? They would talk about it and ask questions over it. They would all want to know who did it and why; why it was so perfect. A perfect act of madness, a prefect painting that I would have made.

Then I looked at my other hand.

There the paint brush set comfortably in my fingers as if it was a part of me, as if it was the hand of God. I always did feel close to him when I created art, like his hands where showing mine where to make the lines, where to mark the colors, breathing life into my work. But surely, this wasn't a painting from God but a painting from Hell. Now the question came; do I rush out into the world to make my perfect piece of artwork, my masterpiece, or do I destroy the muse who gave it to me?

Hours and days passed with me not moving.

Then, like a small touch on the shoulder, I turned and headed for the door; I opened it before you knocked. I welcomed you in, as you eyed the knife and I eyed the brush. Your questions were to the point but I did not answer them. You made some tea and I fell to sleep. When I woke and found that you had left, I took my time making my way back to the painting but when I did, I found something I could not believe. There, on the side of the door covered in color, was a note from you. A small hand written note, telling me---

This painting is perfect.