Tears

I used to gaze intently at the wall in the gallery, studying the painting upon its bare shoulders, as was my routine. I would study a painting, and learn how to improve my own, how to be an Artist! I came every day for years, the same routine and studied a new painting everyday, in hope that it would spark my imagination, strike the right note and produce a work that was worthy of this gallery’s esteemed name. I had tried countless times, and always failed. I’m not sure if it was a lack of inspiration or lack of expertise. I thought I could paint, but I am not the judge or the prosecutor, I am the defender.

I studied this painting, a pink dot on a clear white canvas, and I wonder, is this what art has become? I could paint a river more beautiful then Venice itself, I could paint the Pyramids to look mightier than they are, and yet modern art is considered to be work done by a five year old! A dot on a page, a painting just… black. It angered me inside to know my talent has gone to waste. I don’t not mean to sound pompous, but rather try to show my rage against modern art and try to understand what is considered to be art? I stared at the dot a little longer, and then headed home, defeat sweating from my pores.

I walked home as per normal. I used my walk to think, to absorb my surroundings, hoping desperately for some form of inspiration. My clothes were drenched with failure, my brain full of anguish. Inspiration fled from around me, fearing that I may try to ruin its beauty with my painting. I was working on a piece of art, which I thought was my best so far. It was of a woman, rather old and wise, a perfect ratio of pink, a golden yellow and a bold brown, canvassed across a murky grey background, her face showing sign of a life worthwhile and knowledge that was incomprehensible. Much like my mother.

I opened the door, I was still living with my parents, but that didn’t bother me much. I could never leave, at least until I earned some money from my unsuccessful art. Their house was welcoming and warm, much like my mother. Our house was close to the ocean, the sea breeze and waves calmed my house. “Hi dad” I always welcomed my dad, as he is home alone for most of the day while mum played Bingo, she was the official organiser, and does a fine job. “How are you today?”