Jakob
Jakob
The man stands in front of the canvas, covered in little strokes of pencil, a dab of paint here and there, the foundations of what is meant to be his greatest work. A man, fighting his creative block, his shaggy black hair flowing down just below his shoulders, rustling as he shakes his head periodically; A look down sees discarded paper and shavings from a drawing pencil, he has been sketching out his ideas but none of them are getting close to what he wants to achieve. This is meant to be his masterpiece but he cannot paint, he cannot concoct beauty that befits the subject.
He has painted famous people, hundreds of them, groups of them; he has painted wondrous worlds he has seen in his dreams, full of buxom young women, fairies, frightening yet inviting winged creatures and a vulnerable young boy, being protected from an unseen evil outside the bounds of the canvas. But he cannot paint this person.
He cannot paint himself.
These artists are pretentious types, spending their evenings in tight groups at restaurants, boasting of their latest commission that will one day be shown in the Louvre or the Tate Modern. Most of them wind up many years later in the masses of the national archives, forgotten to the world. But that does not stop these artists pretending they are the best and brightest, analysing things not meant to be analysed, being loud and obnoxious and expecting the whole world to listen to them because they god’s gift to the world, a messiah broadcasting through the medium of art. The man’s chin drops, its tiny dimple disappearing as the skin around it tightens, he has realised he is lost in that world. What happened to the boy he was and the man he was meant to become? Where did Jakob go?
He looks back, trying to remember his past. Images of his parents, his older sister, his younger brother, picnics, family trips and birthday parties but nothing about who he is, it’s his past, not the Jakob he is now. He wants the now, he wants the master painter but he knows the master painter is not him, it’s a man distorted by art school and those nights drinking and discussing past masters and how he would be more famous than them all. He will be more famous than many others one day but he does not know that, he craves the fame now. He remembers a painting, of a knowing man, a man who has seen things to make people cringe and stiffen in fear, has seen his acquaintances commit heinous acts. Those piercing blue eyes, he knows them, seen them a hundred times but he cannot place them.
It is late, he thinks, time for bed. He walks up the stairs, down the hall, looking for that photo he used to have of his family. The people he grew up with, respecting them, loving them with a heart untainted by life and heartbreak. Those buxom women who protected him then left without a word. He never said thank you. His walls are filled with paintings, the visions of friends and the sycophants that hang on his every pretentious word. Paintings trying to emulate his but failing miserably, he knows he is better and he likes that, he likes the women who throw themselves at his young body, expecting to be caressed and charmed by a deep, insightful and creative man. As he curls up in his big, soft bed, a creeping darkness surrounds, enveloping him ever so slowly as he drifts away into a coma.
And downstairs sits his masterpiece. On the surface it is a normal man but there within lies the beauty and the message. He is a normal man, the man you see at the pub, but he has been lost, lost to the thoughts and acts that make the painter see a man of grandeur within the frame.
He has painted famous people, hundreds of them, groups of them; he has painted wondrous worlds he has seen in his dreams, full of buxom young women, fairies, frightening yet inviting winged creatures and a vulnerable young boy, being protected from an unseen evil outside the bounds of the canvas. But he cannot paint this person.
He cannot paint himself.
These artists are pretentious types, spending their evenings in tight groups at restaurants, boasting of their latest commission that will one day be shown in the Louvre or the Tate Modern. Most of them wind up many years later in the masses of the national archives, forgotten to the world. But that does not stop these artists pretending they are the best and brightest, analysing things not meant to be analysed, being loud and obnoxious and expecting the whole world to listen to them because they god’s gift to the world, a messiah broadcasting through the medium of art. The man’s chin drops, its tiny dimple disappearing as the skin around it tightens, he has realised he is lost in that world. What happened to the boy he was and the man he was meant to become? Where did Jakob go?
He looks back, trying to remember his past. Images of his parents, his older sister, his younger brother, picnics, family trips and birthday parties but nothing about who he is, it’s his past, not the Jakob he is now. He wants the now, he wants the master painter but he knows the master painter is not him, it’s a man distorted by art school and those nights drinking and discussing past masters and how he would be more famous than them all. He will be more famous than many others one day but he does not know that, he craves the fame now. He remembers a painting, of a knowing man, a man who has seen things to make people cringe and stiffen in fear, has seen his acquaintances commit heinous acts. Those piercing blue eyes, he knows them, seen them a hundred times but he cannot place them.
It is late, he thinks, time for bed. He walks up the stairs, down the hall, looking for that photo he used to have of his family. The people he grew up with, respecting them, loving them with a heart untainted by life and heartbreak. Those buxom women who protected him then left without a word. He never said thank you. His walls are filled with paintings, the visions of friends and the sycophants that hang on his every pretentious word. Paintings trying to emulate his but failing miserably, he knows he is better and he likes that, he likes the women who throw themselves at his young body, expecting to be caressed and charmed by a deep, insightful and creative man. As he curls up in his big, soft bed, a creeping darkness surrounds, enveloping him ever so slowly as he drifts away into a coma.
And downstairs sits his masterpiece. On the surface it is a normal man but there within lies the beauty and the message. He is a normal man, the man you see at the pub, but he has been lost, lost to the thoughts and acts that make the painter see a man of grandeur within the frame.