One. Top of the Morning

Sometimes I see myself as the ideal artist, other times I see my work and pieces as utter shit. I bet even Michelangelo at some point felt like that when working on the soft colored flesh of cupid angels upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The sunrays shone through the grit stained window, began to diminish, casting a golden aura over the entrance door of my cluttered studio. I worked by these last bits of light, striving to design the perfect image.

I guided a rough piece of charcoal over cream colored paper, creating lines and shadows. The granular texture enhanced each area, making it more “realistic”, more pleasing to look at. A human contour began to take shape, brought to life by my own black stained hands.

The figure looked up at me from the page, its eyes taking a twinkle of their own as I shaded in the curves of its face. Curly hair flung over its brow, casting a darkness about its forehead. The face was quite exquisite; it could easily crown the celestial body of a cherub, descending from the temporal heavens. I brought down the lines of its neck and began the details. For me, this was my life source. To me, I draw because I have to - like eating, sleeping or having phenomenal sex.

Out of so many in the world, I was one who could take a piece of paper and make an image come to life and leap into reality. People paid for my talent, wished they had my talent, and endlessly praised my talent! The problem is, my art had become my very identity. Without it, who would I be? If someone were to extract the creativity from my brain, I would one day wake up as some sort of empty vessel, like those photographs in your average vanity glamour magazine; even death would be welcomed.

Inspiration flew to my fingertips, and before long, I had started a new picture, one that could supersede my previous one. A pitied soul writhed into life beneath my charcoal pencil, its emotion so prominent it could bring the viewer to tears. The eyes were soulful, brimming with the liquid beads of despondence. A clothed body followed, the folds forming dramatically and sweeping across the page, bringing an unearthly beauty to this heart-rending being.

But yet, I tossed it aside, unfinished. It wasn’t my best work; I knew I could do better. If people saw such a deformed piece of work from me, my reputation would be shattered like glass, the shards falling to the ground in a jumble of jagged edges.

Now, I felt as if I were being bled dry of inspiration or a dam was being built to prevent any more drops of vision to flow. This could not be happening to me, not now.

Again I seized my pencil and commenced on a new sketch, this time drawing life into a pair of twirling dancers, their ensemble complimenting their graceful forms. Lines waltzed across the page to complete their figures, but halfway through, I stopped.

I reached for another clean piece of paper to put down a fresh draft of an idea, yet every page I picked up had been covered with slate gray smudges. Not a spot of space was to be found among the cream storm that surrounded me in my room, not a single clear sheet.

An exasperated sigh escaped from my lips, stirring up a pile of papers near me. I drew them into my artist’s embrace, critiquing my own work. I could not believe that each of these images had sprung from my hands’ motions, for they were absolutely hideous!

For a while in the past, I often found my brushed glistened with black, a black so deep that my professors had wondered why I always chose to paint my backgrounds such an all-consuming color.

Perhaps, unconsciously, I felt like my work was about to be erased like that time when my parents painted over my bedroom walls. Their home improvements covered my whimsically yet heart wrenching aesthetic self expressions.

I grabbed a fistful of papers, creasing their charcoal-covered surfaces. A curious ceremony followed; I gazed down upon the sheets, my expression going from wistfulness to frustration.

These weren’t works of art I held in my hand, they were wasted materials, wasted ideas, wasted time.

Wasted talent.

It was then, I shook my head and had to leave my shell for the sake of avoiding the stifling air of cabin fever before true rage and imperative insanity would rear its ugly head tearing through the membrane of my consciousness.

I quickly placed on my denim jacket and headed straight downstairs from my high rise apartment and onto the sidewalk for a cigarette. It was a chilly late afternoon with a bleeding darkness spreading overhead in the sky and I saw the usual people and pedestrians walk in herds, cars whizzing back and forth.

Despite this, the streets still seemed strange today as though they belonged to a ghost town; from the fact there were too few and far in-between souls winding through. I pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a lighter and light the butt. I haphazardly exhaled fumes from my nose and slightly parted my lips as I strode down the sidewalk.

My long, unruly raven black hair, obstructed my vision, hanging over my eyes like swamp moss. I tossed my hair over to reveal, in my tiring vision, a woman holding a blood red umbrella, anticipating for any arriving stormy weather. My eyes wandered south towards her legs. Upon her ankle was a tattoo of a monarch butterfly, fluttering forged and still. By judging from her body language, she seemed as if she was waiting for something or someone to appear on the street--a taxi cab perhaps.

I’m not the cocky extrovert type to just come up to a girl and introduce myself without reviewing it over in my head but I swallowed my diffidence and casually introduced myself, standing a few feet away from her for good measure.

She beamed back with a New York accent, “Top of the morning to you…”

She was certainly gorgeous as her long, dark locks framed her face. She was standing in front of me, hair tousled slightly from the wind outside, cheeks flushed by the cold--looking a bit skittish. I would have guessed she was in her thirties, although, as much as cliché the phrase is; appearances can be deceiving.

“Your cigarette’s gone out,” The woman gestured at the butt hanging from the corner of my mouth. I took it out from my lip’s grip and smiled, “The carton said is has no additives and supposedly much better for you but the stupid things go out as soon as you stop puffing on them.”

“Are you waiting for a cab?” she asked.

I said while I crumbled the dud cigarette beneath my boots, “No, just going taking a walk--to clear my head…I think.”

She nodded her head while her attention was clearly focused on the street before her. Overhead, stormy clouds began to gather in concentration, until they burst into tears. I couldn’t help but notice the cleavage she had open, as drops of water trickled down one of her breasts but I simply averted my glance away before she would catch me in my sorted mental undressing.

Finally a cab pulled up on the side of the road as she slowly opened it. Before she got in, she smiled, “It’s Ann, by the way. It was good talking to you.”

I replied, “The name’s Vincent…It was good talking to you too.” I waved. I tried to give her a smile as warm as her own, and failed quite miserably. It probably looked more like a smirk. Or a grimace.

“I’ll have to leave now or I‘ll miss my appointment…bye.” She twirled her fingers in adieu as she closed the curiously blood red umbrella and got in the taxi cab. The engine grumbled as the yellow cab took her off, while becoming smaller, and smaller until she was gone.

After that, I recited in my mind, what I should have done in the fleeting encounter with this Ann; clever remarks that I should have made, the flirtatious look in her eyes that hadn’t been there, the unmistakable chemistry in the air that in real life had merely been the scent of unfiltered cigarettes.

Funny that I would meet her today when I feel like I’m crashing and burning, aesthetically, and then in an instance, she’s gone. I really felt there was something there - like a crash of lightening hitting between us.

Alright, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic.

It’s so irrational, especially for me - I’ve had crushes on girls before, but this feels completely different.

I’ll probably never again, oh well, I thought while shrugging to myself. Later, I went back upstairs to fix myself a generous dollop, and then fixing myself a cold rum and cola drink. I closed my eyes and saw her face and feel into a deep trance until I fell straight asleep.