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I've spent almost my entire life painting. Hours upon hours of my life spent with brushes in one hand, easel in the other, staring at a blank canvas, trying to conjure something beautiful, something worth spending time to look at and ponder.
As I gaze upon the blankness of it all, the questions I've spent most of my life pushing to the back of my mind now echo loudly within me.
What's it all for? Why do I even bother anymore?
When I was younger, I believed that art had the power to change the world. I thought that through my paintings, I could connect with people, make them see the world in a new light. But through the years, I've concluded that art doesn't really matter. It's just a pastime for me, a way for me and others to distract ourselves from living.
I used to be so full of passion, driven to create something with meaning and purpose. I'd spend weeks, months, sometimes even longer, working on a single painting. I poured out all of my heart and soul into my paintings in an attempt to depict some elusive truth about life or the universe. Now, though, I find myself going through the motions as I mindlessly and mechanically apply paint to canvas.
Don't get me wrong, though, I'm not just an artist, I am damn good artist. All those electives in high school and five years in art school drilled that into me, to the point where I can put color to canvas effortlessly.
When I think about those years where I had to maintain my grades to keep my scholarship, I'm reminded of a gladiatorial battle, but thanks to that, I still have the technical skill and the ability to create something beautiful.
However, I go back to my original question: what's the point? Who cares? It's all just a bunch of lines and shapes of varied colors on a canvas, something to be admired for a brief moment before being forgotten.
I don't know when it started, but back then, I used to have so much faith in the power of art. I thought that if I could bring something truly great to life on canvas, something that spoke to the soul of humanity, that I could make a real difference in this world.
I mean, it did make a difference for me, as art was me and my family's ticket out of poverty, and from there, brought me fame and fortune.
Now? I realize that all of that was just my naïve idealism speaking. The world doesn't need my paintings... or anyone else's paintings, for that matter.
I'm not sure when this voice began to echo in my head. For that matter, I'm also not sure when I realized it was futile to resist it. If I were to venture an educated guess, it most likely started soon after my first exhibition.
Back when I was young and stupid, my older contemporaries had a phrase for it: "being unable to break through the sky".
I laughed it off in my youthful enthusiasm, and after everything I did to get to the top of the art world and stay there, I then realized that no matter how good my art was, it was but a mere drop in the ocean of human creativity.
Or maybe... it was after I saw just how little the average person cared about art, as something relegated to the fringes of society and only the wealthy and privileged could afford to appreciate.
It could be more than that, too. It might have been the slow accumulation of disappointment, the realization that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how talented I was, I would never be able to escape the fundamental meaninglessness of existence.
It might also be my desire to hold onto my greatness as long as possible.
With all that, it's really hard for me to tell what the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back was.
Now, though, I can't help but wonder what the point of all of this is. Why bother creating anything when everything we do is ultimately futile? Why bother trying to express ourselves when no one really listens?
I used to think that art was one thing that could save us from our own insignificance. That by creating something beautiful that spoke to the human heart, we could somehow transcend mortality. Now, I realize that art is just another way of distracting ourselves from the fact that we are all on the slow march towards oblivion, and that everything we do ultimately won't count.
I don't know, though. Maybe I'm just going through what's called a midlife crisis. I mean, it's starting to show. I've started to feel the aches and pains that come with growing old. Maybe I'll snap out of it in a few weeks, and start painting again with renewed vigor. Or maybe, this could be the end of the line. I might have finally reached the point where I'm ready to give up, to accept that everything I've done and worked for has been for nothing.
Sure, it's a depressing thought, but I've always been kind of an optimist, even in my cynicism. Like, how hitting rock bottom can also liberate me from my attachment to art, to the idea that I can somehow make a difference in the world. I can then finally be free: to do whatever I want, without worrying about whether or not it matters.
But then again, what would be the point of that, when I'm ultimately headed nowhere?
I mean, I am a painter, though I don't know if I can call myself that anymore lately. I don't feel like a painter anymore, but I still love the process of painting. It's a paradox, a contradiction that I can't seem to reconcile within myself.
Once upon a time, my passion about painting used to be all-consuming, the drive to create something out of nothing, making a blank canvas come to life.
Nowadays, though, I feel like there's nothing left inside of me to create. My paintings are empty, hollow, devoid of any meaning or purpose. Sure, I keep on painting, but sometimes I wonder why I keep trying to create something meaningless. Could it be force of habit or routine? It might also be my own fear of letting go of the one thing that defines me.
As I look back at my old paintings, I feel a sense of nostalgia accompanied by a deep melancholy; a reminder of my youthful energy and purpose. Now, I feel like I'm just going through the motions of painting, like an automaton. Sometimes I wonder whether I'll ever feel that passion again, that spark that used inflame my soul.
I try to remember the feeling of the creative drive within coming to life within me. I try to remember days gone by, when I slept with a brush still clutched in my hands, so eager I was to begin the next day and see what wonders I would paint. Now, those days feel like a lifetime ago, like they belonged to somebody else.
Yes, I admit that part of my problem is my cynicism. I look at the world around me and I see so much pain, suffering and injustice. I find myself wondering if anything I create could bring a moment of joy or peace to someone else's life or if art is more than just a frivolous luxury in a world that is full of need.
Still, I also know that there is something inside of me that still believes in its power, that beauty and creativity can make a difference in the world. I don't know how to reconcile that belief with my current hollowed-out state, but I know that it's there, lurking somewhere beneath the surface.
That's why I keep painting, even though it feels like I'm just going through the motions. I keep searching for that spark of inspiration, that moment of clarity when everything falls into place and I know exactly what I want to create. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't. Even then, I keep painting anyway, because I know that if I stop, even the possibility of feeling that spark again will be gone.
Even now, I try to find motivation in other places as well. I read books, watch movies, listen to music, even play video games, all in the hope to find something that will reignite my creative spirit. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Every now and then, I feel inspired by a particular character or scene, and I try to capture that feeling on canvas. When it doesn't, I just go back to old habits and go through the motions.
Unfortunately, I've lived by the adage "anything worth doing is worth doing well, anything worth doing well is worth doing perfectly". It's served me well, up until the point where I fall short of the high expectations that I set for myself.
It's kind of like when you're on top of the mountain, you have a target on your back, and every other artist is gunning for you. And when I see other artists whose work I admire, I am struck with the need to go even further, to exceed their level of skill or creativity.
I know that comparison is the thief of joy, but it's what kept my artistic edge sharp for so long.
Heck, looking back, the sheer effort of staying on top is more exhausting than the harrowing climb to get there.
You would think that all this self-reflection would get me somewhere... but it doesn't.
Because I'm standing here, in a ratty auditorium, filled to the brim with people who don't acknowledge my existence, and are here to talk about their spouses and children.
High school reunion.
That's right, high school.
I'm standing in a corner, plastic cup filled with "fruit punch" clutched in one hand, an islet of sanity in the middle of the sea that is poofy-haired women, neon-colored ties and idle talk.
I'm five seconds away from just up and vanishing from here when someone unfamiliar approaches me.
"Leonard... Variel?" the girl who looks like she's two decades too young to be in a reunion like this asks me, and I nod hesitantly.
"Fantastic! I bugged my folks to make it here since you were their classmate in high school. The name's Adele. Huge fan," she continues, her white blouse complemented with blue a contrast to everyone else's loud colors.
"Huge fan, huh?" I ask as I quirk an eyebrow at her.
"Yeah," she answered, nodding rapidly. "We had to do a paper on the 'Nomenclature of Exhilaration' for our Artistic Studies final... I just want to ask: how did you do it?"
"How did I do what?" I ask, confused.
"You put so much love in that painting, I want to know how you did it," she answers me.
Wait, the Nomenclature of Exhilaration?
That's neither my masterpiece nor my favorite painting. Heck, I put it together in two hours when I was reminiscing my time back in art school when a female friend decided to experiment with me...
...I made it on a whim, then forgot about it. Didn't know it would end up that famous.
"Well, it's a long story..." I say, right before I took a sip of that 'fruit punch'.
***
Several minutes and glasses of 'punch' later, I wrap up my story about how that painting came to be, and Adele is looking at me like I'm some kind of deity of art descending upon the world to provide his grace, thanks to the hastily-drawn sketch of her I based off said painting.
"That's an inspiring story," she finally says, clutching the paper to her chest like it was a precious treasure or something. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I reply with a sad smile; that snapped her out of it.
After giving me a slight bow and walking away, she took a glance at her watch to look at the time.
"Oh no!" Adele exclaims, "my folks already left!"
I took several steps forward, my bravado covering for my sense of balance.
"I'll walk you to a cab," I offer, and for a moment, the distress on her face seemed to melt away. "It's for wasting your time here."
My gallantry nearly fell flat on its face like I did, but I managed to grab the wall.
After Adele gave me a surprised look, I try to shrug.
"Reunion 'punch'," I explain. "You'll understand in a few years. For now, though, let's get you that cab ride home."
And to think, we were so close to the cab stop when I had to push her into the bushes thanks to me seeing two lights heading straight towards me.
Next thing I knew, I saw myself floating above the car that totaled itself on the post, an obviously drunk man staggering out the driver's side door, Adele freaking out, and my mangled self, flung several feet away by the impact.
Moments before a white light washed over me, I thought: this sucked.
I also hope the East German judge will give me at least a 7.233Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡntYSpup0YU
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