“The work of an artist is only challenged by what canvas he uses.”
Along mumbles Mr. Doe after recently just finishing his latest sculpture to be put in his latest art movement, this time to take place in the hustle and bustle of the world working at point. His tools imitating the movement of a hummingbird’s pecking with the contrasting sound of soft hammering, he looks over to the map while lightly imagining the commute to Time Square, where he “will show unveil his genius”.
His mind grazes on into a deeper and more profound place. He imagines of a wondrous machine being risen up with steampunk mechanisms and wizardry-like workings fussing on while he hits the stake hard on his artwork. The hallucinations begin once again. He swears that as his work progresses on, and the final forms of his precious and scared clay come into more hardened edges, he feels as if the sculpture moves on it’s own. He fantasizes his works coming to life and it terrifies him. He can’t stop. He must not stop. Every collision with his tools to his soon-to-be beloved work gives a shivering scream, and it trickles his soul to the point of a gulped choke. Hit, scream, and he swears he scarcely notices that it twitches a little. No time for that now, he figures when returning more into the progression. He hits himself and pounds the mallet even more in the hopes of its animal-like shrieks to shut it the fuck up. It does the job, and he swears he hears it whimper. He checks for any inconsistency with the outside roughness to smoothness of it all. With a smug and insensitively tolerated sigh, he tenderizes it softly, quietly tapping it. It rots his mood that, for almost a strained moment, it’s as if he’s forgotten what he’s been doing this whole time and takes a small quivering look at what he’s progressed with so far. With that quick glare checked over, he goes back to his work, and the hallucinations begin once again but he is less prone to being affected by them. He is genuinely scared that his passion is driving him mad. The religious boy who yearned for his mother’s biscuits and tea is beginning to regress. He almost mutedly whispers for help as he can’t take the screams that shake on for every mound he’s made onto the rubble slowly gaining it’s curve. His hand and hammer are following a shivering routine and rhythm, now. His mind is only barely able to establish the fact that a side is barely doing anything aesthetic and he returns to that side to repair it. He shrugs with his absent-mindedness and lets out a bull-like sneer. As he pounds into his masterpiece, thoughts of how the work of art is going to be put rummage about in his head.
With the back of his palm put against his brow to wipe the clear signs of fatigue off of him, he just takes a satisfied smirk, that his teeth might just rip off. “It’s going to be quite a heavy load to get into the car” thinks Mr. Doe as he prepares the rags in wrapping up his work tonight haphazardly, making sure not to disturb everyone directly below his floor. “Everybody’s a critic,” murmurs he, while scurrying about in his hotel room making sure to be as light and as graceful as a ballet dancer. Humming a certain opera tune while going about for the tools to pack in, his swaying movement begins to mimic a dance of sorts, all the while maintaining his work pace. As the final utensil to commence his unveiling at the center of the proverbial apple is set into place, he makes a quick and shuttered sigh. He is satisfied, happy, and overjoyed.
A final glance done with his eyes over the whole surroundings in the cheap rented room, like bees to honey, and he concludes his evening of work. He notices his dirty self; the sudden irritation in his nose followed by a hearted sneeze ensured that. He only proudly breathed in to take the amount of hard work he put into it before he decided that cleaning up was now the next work of art, needed done. He slowly glides across the room, like a child on Christmas day, and he regards his work as beautifully to him it may seem. He loves it, he absolutely adores it. If it were alive, he would kiss it, despite it’s terror-inflicting nature it gave out in just mere hours of its creation. Like a mother’s kind tug on the wrist of a kid who’s too endowed with the pretty colors and flashy images in the television behind the glass of a retail store as they pass the street, he’s reminded that there are more important things to tend to. He continues the almost endless journey toward the restroom. Flashbacks of his mother’s favorite sayings begin to jut in now. His lips are suddenly curving toward a smile, but it’s interrupted by his slight gasp toward the ghastly looking appearance he sees in the mirror. “Dirty. Mother said that a dirty boy was either the sign of a hooligan up to no good, or he was too drenched in the ink of his write-ins”. He hoped that she meant write-ins even correlated to sculpting.
“Well, look at me, now, mom. Your boy’s a genius,” he says as his face inches stylishly toward the surface of the mirror. His hands give small gashes as he roughly handles the work done by the severity of the dirt moved onto him. He wonders how his mother could ever be so plastered to be in care of a messy little shit. You know your father couldn’t, despite her desperate tries to keep you happy and uninformed about it. Seconds, which imitate eternity, go on as he places his hands against the sink. His hands firmly supporting him using the sink in front, he decides that despite the drastic change of interest, which led to his professional artistry, he is, after all that, satisfied. Raising an eyebrow, years of thinking and planning are compressed microscopically into one genuine second. Speaking in a higher volume and in oozing confidence, he declares, “I could get used to this.”
He washes the blood off his face and the rest of his drizzled body to rid any trace of the genius that’s washed over him so abundantly. Going about a routine so amazingly practiced by the films his friends, whether they were real or not, they were real to him, had showed him, he bathed his face and chest clean enough for the greatest unveiling he had ever imagined. Like waterfalls down the deepest chasm of humanity, the water trickling down his face symphonized melodically with the gushing of faucet water filling up the bucket and it’s peroxide. He recalls of all the sacrifices his mother made during this. He thinks that it might be a metaphor sourcing from the acid to clean the room and stuff… or some other shit.
He finishes his cleansing as if a new man had been born from the caustic ritual that he had just concluded. Almost ghostly, he traverses through the room with his sculpture in one arm, or what’s barely being able to handle the weight, and a small pale of paint with a tiny toothpick of a brush in it, and places both near the exit. He makes his signature on that side of the wall, lightly giggling at the thought of his fame. Fearing the lack of notoriety in his forte, he rips an arm off his masterpiece to further make himself more known the avant-garde homicide movement. He skips over to the center of the room and lightly poses it in the most ridiculous way. He gives himself a grimace with a nod to ensure that this will amuse the more ‘serious’ types of art goers.
He dons his top hat, tips it to bid his kind audience away, and takes a massive leap in one foot. Wait. He forgets. He is disappointed with his endless forgetful senses. “How the hell will my Mona Lisa be noticed, if no one goes on to check?”
He picks up the telephone. In lack of tone, emotion, and soul he mutters “Hello, room service? There’s been a mess made in room 42. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Also, if you could come up here as I go down, I could check out easily. Yes, Thank you.”
He checks out.
She barely makes the way to his room to clean the mess, muttering the way, after he’s able to leave the building and any people who can identify him, it in time.
She screams. The crisp in the crack of horror in her voice are as fresh as the rotting smell of a hand dislodged somewhere on the floor posed with a thumb, and pinky finger opened out as the other fingers are tightly packed in there. She barely registers what she sees. She dials three numbers. The moments flash when she remembers it after contacting the police. She had no care on what they did, but she didn’t want her little world broken. There was no dead body, this internship is all I have, I can just return to cleaning rooms, and hooking up, no biggie. A thousand thoughts, she rocks herself back and forth to cope, but she never does.
The police arrive and report their findings.
“The work of an artist is only challenged by what canvas he uses.” is scribbled on the wall using crimson red paint.
The station is running their habit of monkeying about trying to find a good lead as this piece of news hit their chapter. They level themselves with enough stress to end a life. Everything is flustered, and people speak of a cult. Police normally don’t receive thing all too well in accordance with the time of a scenarios real time of happening other than the time it was reported. They knew their obsolete methods were getting the worst of them. They realized it accordingly, and then went back to their slacking routine against everything they’ve ever handled after it. This time, there was a tension in the air. It choked haggardly those in the higher-ups, and it asphyxiated heavily on those who handled the dirtier menial work. Though in different sides of the spectrum in boss-to-subordinate, everyone had this one conjunctional thought. “It’s one of those things.”
A phone rings amongst the rabble of work and units discussing and the world freezes in tension. Glances are exchanged, as the atmosphere in the room is enough to set the entire building ablaze while one after one after one of the officers would finally muster the courage to pick up. One does answer. “It’s the chief”, he cowardly says. “Flip the FOX channel up.” Each one is eager to watch. As static from the cheap television finally fades over in the room, people all become fixated to the trance of the new channel coming alive and with grey, red, and other spectra of colors to greet them.
“Gruesome ‘sculpture’ found in middle of Time Square in New York. “
Reads in the banner. The silence deafens the world while people in the gaze in the picture box and just soak in the appreciation and fear of life and those who gaze about in it. Somewhere, John Doe is reveling in the exact feeling they are grieving in. His message is put. His genius is unveiled.
“…. Bodies mangled together by what looks like clay used….”
The work of an artist
“…. Usage of nails, desiccated fluids of an unknown source, and other materials….”
Is only challenged
“…. Never know why they would do this to him! Everyone loved him. He….”
By what canvas he uses.