I stare blankly at the plane of white before me. The iridescent void screamed silently at me and I stared equally blankly in return. Why do you do this to me? Why can’t I do this to you? I have performed all the rituals. I have the right music playing in the background. The lights are at the right dimmer setting. The incense is burning. Why do you elude me? Why do you evade me? I want to create within that realm of creation, but I cannot. I am suspicious of that creation. What if I create something wrong? What if I waste my medium? What if my creation is not liked? If I don’t push the boundaries, my creation won’t sell.
The artist sets down his brush and palette. He had fully contended in committing his lines, but the moment left him. He downed the rest of his wine and stared at his reference material. the four photographs were more than enough to gin him the basis and inspiration for another work, but he wanted more. He wanted to create something. Something at a genuine level. Maybe it was the bottle of expensive wine talking, but he was tired of on uninspired design after another. At the same time, his individual works did not sell, but that didn’t matter. The artist wanted to be an artist. Not an advertiser.
‘Damn it!” He yelled aloud.
The artist threw his tools down in frustration. Thankfully, he designed the room for such frustration. His whole home was self-designed. The living room with its Victorian feel. The kitchen with its modern professional chef appeal. The studio with its wall to wall white walls and stain repellant covering. Easy to clean. Easily to vent frustration on. His own frustrations went on to sell for a decent price when working on other projects.
Right now he was in his focus. And his focus was not being inspired. He screamed. He yelled. He threw his paint and palettes aside. Still, nothing would come forth. Nothing new and inspiring.
Robert paced about his studio. He could easily produce another uninspired work, but it was not enough. As such as felt. As much as he felt that his inspiration had stolen from other works, he himself found that he could not produce something genuinely his own.
Before he could help himself he was googling abstract art. Once again for the hundredth time. I’m an accomplished artist, he said to himself as he scanned the images, I do not need to lower myself to bastardizing other peoples works.
He was nearly in tears when the phone rang.
“Hello?” he said, trying not to sound as drunk as he really was.
“Heya, Rob! Bella here! Howya doin?” The artist’s agent said.
The artist looked at his blank canvas. Then at the smeared mess at the floor to the right of his supposed work.
“Hey, Amabelle. The work is going pretty good. Ah, what are you up to?” he replied, trying to change the subject. “What’s keeping you up at such an hour?”
“Robby, you know its ‘you’ that keeps me up at night.” The artist’s agent replied. “What’s keeping you?”
The artist stared at his cell phone first, then at his blank canvas. He wanted to tell Mrs. Lovelle that he was exhausted at this line of work. That he wanted to create genuine abstract art of his own. The only problem was that he couldn’t. Despite the years and years of striving at the craft, he could not seem to create something definitively his own. Only derivative work needed to satisfy someone else’s niche. Oh, how he raged.
“The piece is coming along nicely,” Rob lied, the blank canvas staring at him defiantly, “Maybe another week or two and it should be completed.”
There was a long pause. Rob knew that it was never good to leave an agent waiting, and doubly so when an agent needed to think.
“Robert, you do know that the due date is next week right?” Annabelle said, matter a factly.
The artist allowed this temporal fact illude his work.
“I know, Mrs. Annabelle.” He said, ” The piece will be completed in time.”
There was the customary shuffling from one hand to the other.
“You know, Robert, that a lot has gone into this business. A lot of me has gone into you getting your work completed promptly and getting our contracts satisfied.” She said.
“I know, Amabelle.” Rob said, “I promise a solid piece that we both can be proud of.”
Amabell was silent for a long moment. Rob figured she was imagining him being distracted by alcohol and Netflix. This was only 50% of the case.
“Alright, Rob. I know its early in the morning, but I know you. If you answered as such, you’d be at work and I’ll leave you to it. Just promise me you won’t let me down. ”
Doddson took another sideways glance at the blank canvas.
“No problem, Amabella. You know me. Rockstar all the way to the end.”
“Alright, my rockstar. Rock me once again!”
“You got it, babe.”
“Thanks. Finish it, okay. Goodnight.”
“Good night.”
Rob set the iPhone down and went back before his painting. Once again he looked over the reference photos. Again he looked over his commissioner’s instructions. Moderate complex. Simple color set. Illustrating the commissioner’s company in its entirety. A piece of procrastination cake, Robert thought to himself. He scraped up his palette and brush from the mess on the floor in which they currently resided. Placing them on the small worktable next to his easel, he produced a clean set.
“Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.” Doddson said to himself. “It’s going to be a steaming pile of crap, but its a commissioned steaming pile of crap that will…”
Robert trailed off as he began mixing his paints. Zen, he repeated in his head as he grabbed a couple of brushes, be zen. Don’t think just create. I hate it. It’s boring. I can’t stand this. I want to set fire to it and lay on top it.
For the next several hours this self-deprecation continued. The entire time, the artist crafted his promised image. Everything was as he intended. Lines both sharp here and soft there. The wash blending the three colors in a fluctuating hue. Swirls and pointed edges articulating the company’s dual nature. It was a solid piece, now that it was completed. And Robert Doddson, its creator hated every bit of it.
Reaching for the camera that hung off the corner of his small worktable, Robert to a good snapshot of the completed work. The image was wirelessly uploaded to his photo server. Producing his phone, he quickly located the file and shared it with his client. Another copy was sent to his agent.
“Great job!” Amabella texted back. “Stop making me wait so long.”
“I’ll put the varnish and sealer on it tomorrow,” Robert replied. “It’ll give it that slightly antiqued look the client liked in my other work.”
“It’s 5:15am.”
Robert leaned back in his stool to see the slowly illuminating window on the far side of his apartment steadily getting brighter.
“You know what I mean.” Rob texted. “Goodnight.”
Chapter 2: No THIS is the Worst Part…
James C Gilliam 