I stare at the drawing in front of me with irritation. Although I had knew what I had wanted and the form it was supposed to take was burnt into my mind like a vivid picture, it is nothing like what it was supposed to be in my mind, instead of the dark brooding atmosphere I had set out to create the painting looks more like a cheap attempt to capture carvaggio in its most amateuristic form. It is worthless, and any attempt to improve on this controversy of a thing would be futile indeed. In anger I tare the canvas apart and tear the sheet into shreds, uncomfortable and angry at my surmised failure to create or capture the essence that I know is in my heart I take several moments to recompose myself. The creation I want to capture is still there looming in my mind like an angry child, aggravated at my failure to produce it, yelling at me that it has chosen wrongly to come to me.
Unperturbed I take a new white canvas and set it on the easel. I take the dark tones of blue green and red I have made myself and combine them until I get a mask of sorts, with extensions of all the colors I can muster. It however, is not enough the colors are still visible behind the large stain I have drawn. And I know once again that something is missing it is not dark it is not anger it is nothing. It lacks all clear emotion it can possibly have, it is another mockery not worthy to be called a painting. Reluctant I am about to tear it too pieces, when a though strikes me. Instead of destroying it, maybe something can still be done. And just like that I feel like I know what I am missing. I take some magnesium powder and pour it into a large bowl with some water, I stare it slowly until a dark red paste is formed. I wait until the texture is in a consistency I can use with my brush and start painting this new dye all over the canvas. All the colors I had put previously are now replaced by an incredibly dark layered red that almost feels like it is alive somehow. Swallowing all the work I had done previously on it so that it can feed itself. The layers continue on and the canvas is now completely unrecognizable as the one I had started. I smile to myself and finally get the satisfaction that the work is going forth smoothly. But I am still not there although the darkness is now captured there is more it needs; it needs to be satisfied otherwise it will never look content. The darkness has to grow, to devour, it needs to feed, it needs sustenance for it to be complete I need to take more extreme steps. I take a large knife from the kitchen and head back to my studio with it. The pastry I have made has hardened quickly in the rather warm room and it now looks almost like something, but it is still not quite there. I take the knife and start carving in it the forms and shapes that need to come out. It is hard work and soon I work up a sweat I take off my shirt and continue, I soon forget everything around me and emerge myself completely in the painting. As I continue to work more facets of the painting reveal themselves to me and in my mind I can see more of what needs to be done, more colors arise and I press them into cracks and seams within the canvas using my hands as tools. Brushes can no longer do the work I require and I continue to use my body itself as a brush. Quickly however, the paint splashes all over my body and instead of cleaning it I feel I am now finaly becoming in tune with the work, as if I am now able to connect with it in a different manner. I take off all my cloths and continue to work feverishly, the restrain of my cloths now gone, I can use every part of my body as a brush everything feels like it is connected, like it is working as one unit. I take my penis in my hand and use it as a brush the feeling it gives me is one of pure pleasure no longer am I only using my hands but I am using the most sensitive part of my body as a designer. I push me penis into the paint and then onto the canvas, the large cracks are quite sharp and at certain areas I can feel a hard throbbing rubbing against my member, but I take no heed of it. It is of no importance, the only thing that matters is the painting. I brush the painting more and more roughly and I can feel my dick starting to throb, as it does I realize that it has become hard, instead of feeling uncomfortable I can only feel joy as I continue to pulse in tune with the painting. A large thin crevice cuts the tip of my penis and I let out a shout of pain, blood bursts out onto the canvas mixed with the paint that was on it. I do not move and looked stunned at the effect this creates. The image I have in my mind grins in content, I look down at the blood now trickling on the white tiled floor of the studio and try to collect it with my hands so that I can apply it unto the canvas. It quickly coagulates and I am left with dried out blood. I stare at the painting and I can feel it beckoning to me, to continue. I look at the small cut on my penis and walk closer to the painting. I press the wound onto an especially sharp ridge and purposely cut open my tip along its edge, the pain is like a shock and it sends electric shocks to my system, it urges me to push my penis away from the pain, but in my mind I cannot. I need to continue the painting I need to feel the joy of seeing the painting in my mind become a reality and so I go on with the work adding the metallic blood to the beautiful darkness that the drawing radiates, a darkness that seems to be sucking me ever deeper into the abyss, an abyss that is still unknown to me but somehow tender, comforting, inviting.
I feel the urge to pee coming, and the urge is too much to bare I let it out all over the painting and the pain of the acidic urine going over my wounded member is enough to drive me insane but instead of crouching down I look up towards the painting that now has urine dripping from it and the image is incredible. I place the picture on the floor getting urine all over myself, the paint and the canvas. I watch it as the urine dries out and the pain is a reminder that something incredible is happening. Something special that when finished will be my most cherished work, a work known through the ages as one of the essential pieces of art.
When I am finally done I realize I am still missing something, the blood has coagulated and although the pain is a constant reminder that something is not as it should be I can pay no mind to it. The painting beckons me to finish it, to put the final pieces into the masterwork it needs to be, but I know not what it is. I can see the finished product clearly in my mind and I know I am on the right track everything I have done is as planned, it is what needed to be done, but now I am lost. What comes next?
Something is distracting me; I stare at the white tiled floor at something black that is crawling next to my feet. I bend down to take a closer look and see that it is but an ant. Without realizing what it is that I am doing my hand reaches out accord and squashes the ant unto the floor. I pick up its broken body and tear it into several parts. I then place the parts onto special places left within the painting and smile. The painting needed that, and it needs more I search the house for other ants and after a search that takes me into every dark corner of the house I come back to the painting with my treasure of findings: several ants and spiders as well as one cockroach. I tear them into pieces and place them neatly into strategically left places all around the painting. I smile at the result it feels like so much more than a painting, it feels like a work that has taken on a life of its own. But it still is not complete it needs something more something to give it soul, something that can elevate it into a masterwork so extraordinary that it will be truly alive, no not alive immortal. Forever at the place of all masterworks to come, forever regarded as the single most incredible piece of work that has ever existed. And just like that I know what has to be done, I smile a sad little smile knowing that everything I have done has led me down this path, has led me to a singular ally road and now there is no turning back. I look at the painting, barely recognizable as a drawing anymore for it is everything now. It is society as a whole, it is death and darkness, it is feelings of pain and ambition, fear and loathing, pleasure and ecstasy, it has wounds and expectations and now for it to truly be alive it needs a soul.
I look down at the knife that I have used and with one quick movement plunge it into my stomach. I can hold my breath no longer and a utter a scream not of pain but of fulfillment, it is only right. The blood gushes out together with my eternal organs and I can hold my feet no longer I fall onto my knees try to breathe another sigh but the air is burning and my head is heavy. I fall on the painting staining it with everything that I am, everything that I was and everything that I could ever be, but somehow it is still not enough. My eyes begin to blur and as I stare at the ceiling I try to turn my head to view the painting one last time, but my body is my own no longer and I drift away…
This is a horrible little story. I wanted to write a voyage into madness a place where you start out from in a normal and relatively known environment and lapse into a mad journey that has nothing to do with what you started with. That start for me was a painting and when I finished the story I thought I might have gone overboard. So I googled some epic paintings and found out that people do the strangest things! People draw with their members or boobs or vaginas, as well as with urine, feces, sperm and blood and the list just goes on and on. It was quite mad and it was only when I realized people were actually doing these things already that I felt I couldn’t go too far.