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I am an artist, although it is not my main occupation.
Just as someone who is unpublished but who writes novels can call himself an author, or someone who has not got a record deal but who plays an instrument can call himself a musician, although my work is not exhibited in art galleries and I have not sold a single piece, I consider myself an artist nevertheless. Artists cannot be measured in terms of wealth or success, nor by how well known their name is or how many celebrities want them to paint their portrait, no, being an artist is something that comes from within.
Art is anything. Art is in everything. It is not just a portrait hanging in The National Gallery or a sculpture displayed in the Tate. Everything that has a form, a structure, a colour, can be art. Anything that has been made or even destroyed can be art. It has no right or wrong answer. People either like what they see or they do not, either way the piece should speak to the viewer. It should evoke feelings, be they negative or positive it does not matter. Art speaks to everyone and that is the main thing.
My work involves everything from painting to sculpture to drawings to collage, in fact whatever mood I am in and whatever I have at hand defines what I create. Although recently I have begun to specialize.
The piece I have just finished is my best work to date. I have honed my skills and found my niche, my style. Obviously it will not be to everyone’s taste and when (if) it is ever shown to the world then I will expect a vicious backlash from the public and critics. But so did Matisse and the other members of the Fauvism movement when their work was first shown, and so did Monet and the other Impressionists. The very names that were coined to describe their efforts started as insults thrown at them by the critics of the time. Now it is art history.
Maybe one day a term will be coined for my work. Maybe in a hundred years time my name will be remembered along with other masters.
Loved or loathed, my work will be remembered.
The night I finally finished my masterpiece is proof that art exists all around us. We just have to learn to see it.
After months of work the piece was almost complete. I had left my attic studio and ventured out to collect some raw materials as I often add them to my work to create a three dimensional effect, adding parts of the real world to a world I have created. My intention for this piece was to try and give the viewer as much to take in as possible and to play on as many emotions as I could. Whatever they felt when looking at it and whatever opinion they had of my talent, my main aim was for it to be unforgettable. So different, so daring, so new that it would be truly unique.
I had been out for almost an hour and after finding what I needed I had headed back towards home. I live on the outskirts of a small town that is bordered with farmland and beautiful countryside (a beauty that would do justice to a Constable painting) and due to this I often found materials easy to come by, although on this particular trip it had taken me a little longer than usual.
I was heading home along the gravel road that led to my detached house when ahead of me I spotted them. The two teenage boys stood by the side of the road, illuminated in the vibrant glow of the streetlamp, a yellow so outstanding in the gloom that it could have leapt from a watercolour by Turner. The beauty was lost on them and I knew from the way their heads turned to me as I approached and by the expression on their faces that they were typical of modern day youths; out for mischief, up to no good, no respect for anyone but themselves, no ambition for the future and certainly no understanding of art. They would not know the difference between the Mona Lisa and a stick figure.
As I approached them I gripped the handle of my shoulder bag tighter and felt the weight of its contents lie against my back. Both of the lads were about fifteen or sixteen. Both wore tracksuits and baseball caps as if it were a uniform. The taller of the two (although the other one was hardly short and both of them towered over my five-foot-four frame) said something I could not make out to his companion and I could feel their eyes bore into me as I passed.
I didn’t look back but instead let my gaze wander over the beauty of the night. The full moon being dissected by the thin grey clouds in front of it reminded me of the eye-splitting scene from Dali’s surreal film Un Chien Andalou and the grass and trees to either side of me, and the steeple of the church in the distance, black against the dark blue of the sky, made me feel as though I was walking through Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Yes, art was all around me. Everywhere.
It was totally involuntary, but as I heard their footsteps behind me my adrenalin pumped harder as if expecting the attack but I did not quicken my pace. Why should I be afraid? Me, a forty-year-old man who had lived in the area for years, a man who could remember the town when it was safe to walk the streets at night and leave your front door unlocked. But that was before this generation of scum was born. Before these criminals, vandals, thugs and junkies came into being.
It happened so fast. I felt the hand grasp the handle of my bag and yank it from my shoulder. I stopped and turned as I realized what was happening.
So this was a mugging? This was their art form.
The two lads didn’t know what I carried, let alone if I had anything valuable in the shoulder bag but they had decided they wanted it. I pulled hard on the strap but my assailant would not let go and soon his companion also joined in the struggle. I felt the strap start to slide from my grasp. I watched in horror as the zipper began to open as the metal teeth were pulled apart by the tug-of-war.
The hacksaw fell to the ground first.
Clunk!
Both boys looked down at it but they did not stop yanking for their prize.
The zipper opened further and I stifled a gasp as the black bin liner came into view. Soon it too, and its contents, fell to the damp pavement. This time the sound was a hollow thud rather than the tinny clang of the saw.
The two boys stopped pulling as the contents of the bag rolled toward their feet.
The dead eyes stared up at them. The open mouth silently screamed.
Edvard Munch eat your heart out.
The one who had started the attack looked at me but I had already pulled the knife from my coat pocket and flicked the blade.
There was a magnificent streak of light as I slashed at him.
I attacked him like I imagined Francis Bacon attacking one of his paintings but instead of a thick splat of red oil paint staining the white canvas, a dark jet of blood exploded from his neck as I brought the blade down through the soft skin under his left ear and around under his throat. He fell to the ground clutching the gaping wound, both in shock and to stop the blood spurting from his opened artery.
I quickly turned on his friend.
In that instant I saw his face as if it was a piece of Pop Art by Litchenstein, complete with Benday Dots and primary colours ready to capture the moment of action like a caption from a comic book. I jabbed the blade into his right eye before he could move. I imagined a word appearing beside his face in huge bright yellow block capitals to describe the sound like BLAM! or POW! but this time the word SQUELCH! would have probably been more apt.
As I withdrew the blade from his pulped eye ball the lad fell to the floor. He was dead before he landed which I was not expecting but pleased me. His companion rolled in agony beside him, the red jet from his throat growing weaker as he died, a gargling sound emanating from his mouth as thick, dark globules of blood and spit ran down his chin.
I looked at the stains around them. Splatter marks illuminated by the sodium glare of the streetlight, as seemingly random yet brilliantly executed as anything by Pollock, the positions of the two bodies as beautiful and poetic as anything in a Renaissance painting.
Death was beautiful. Death was art.
I stooped and picked up the woman’s head that had fallen from my bag. Her left cheekbone had been dented slightly from the fall but she was still beautiful, still worthy of taking centre stage in my masterpiece. The last part to be added.
I dusted her face and placed her carefully back in the bin liner. I then zipped that back up in the bag before slinging it over my shoulder.
I took one last look at the two bodies before I walked away.
I studied their pose, the setting, the colours, the entire composition. It was a quick sketch, something done on the spur of the moment without much forethought but equally as pleasing to me as something that I could have slaved over for months.
When someone later found them, I doubt they saw anything artistic in the scene. I doubt they appreciated it. But I bet they were horrified. I bet they were Shocked. Speechless. I bet it affected them emotionally. They may not have liked what they saw but I doubt they would ever forget it.
Therefore, I as the creator would have succeeded. My work remembered.
When I had seen enough I continued on my way, inspired by what I had just produced and ready to complete my masterpiece.
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