He Who Sleeps Forever

An exploration of the relationship between man and art, as well as how narcissism can bring man to his knees. Delusions are nothing but ideas that have become real, like a living dream-in this way, I try to connect the world of delusions and that of art.

The darkness does get boring, I suppose. I mean, it’s all I see, day after day… hell, I don’t even know what day it is anymore. I can’t even remember how I got here in the first place. I’ve never felt so numb in my entire life; it’s an eerie sort of feeling, like you aren’t really there, except you are. I wish I could just remember how I got here in the first place, at least I’d understand…

 

Images of colour, in furious arrangement, flutter across my eyes. I can see myself, in my flat, carving a paintbrush across a once-pure canvas, etching raven black and dark hues of blue into the opus of the century. Past works of art, my very own, decorate the stone-white walls, while pieces by Chadrin, Greuze and Poussin fill the empty spaces between the floor-to-ceiling windows, so that while they can still be seen, my works receive the benefit of the glorious Russian sun.

I have always been inspired by French art: the vivid colours, the texture, the blending of light and dark, all complimenting the object by which the painter visualized. It is the works of these outstanding artists that encouraged me to release my artistic freedom, and now I’ve mastered it.

My art goes through moods, just as I do: the far end of the stony wall is filled with vibrant greens and yellows and reds, the night skies of Moscow and the Moskva River at sun break. Then, as one progresses further down the wall, darker shades, blurred into scenes of angst riddled with anger, begin to dominate.

At the moment my current piece is a mix: the Moskva, shining under a wary sun, with fingers of blue-black ink trailing downstream, and a woman in the background collapsed into tears. I will call it The Death of Art. It will be my best; that is, if I am ever to be considered as one of the great ones. The French were gifted: they were able to become one with their work, and that’s how their art became so powerful. If only I could transgress into that very world as well… I would become renowned; famous, even.

I drop the frayed paintbrush and breathe. Evening is just breaking the sun’s waning barrier, and, like a piece of stained glass, it filters the sun’s light into a glorious tint of red, praising my newest work. And I know I must leave.

I slip into my jacket, the packages sewn into the lining puffing up the edges; but no one will notice. I slip out the door as silently as a star fades out of the sky and head towards the end.

 

The ivory-columned Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts is my second home: across the pious yet magnificent Cathedral of Christ the Saviour on Volkhonka Street, I have visited the institution at least once a week for the past seven years. I know the outline by heart.

My favourite exhibition is located across the way from the vainglorious reproduction of the interior yard of the Palazzo Bangello in Florence, where granite columns bearing floral capitula rise from parquet floors, all encompassing a grandiose Italian-sculptured fountain spewing forth crystal water from the finest streams in Russia. The ostentatiousness never was my style.

But past that display remains the treasure of the museum: a long room adorned with French art of the 17^th-18^th centuries. Paintings and sculptures by Poussin, Lorrain, Chadrin, Greuze and David, among others, line the classically-architected brickwork and bring an aura of enlightenment to the chamber. The magnificence brings me peace.

I can begin to feel my heart pound against thin vinyl jacket wrapped over my shoulders. I bring my hands to the lining of the coat and feel the powder-like substance within its paper packaging, enclosed there with thread and wired by first sunlight. Its feeling across the callused skin of my fingers brings me comfort.

I see a woman, with blond hair and startling blue eyes, gazing long-eyed at a painting by Watteau. Her striking beauty reminds me of the exquisiteness of the room I am in, and I decide that it is her.

Her delicate hands reach out towards the painting, as if longing to be a part of the wonder. I myself have longed to come together with the art, and my heart breaks at the thought of another lost soul such as myself. Then she will understand what I am about to do.

I stroll casually to the oil-painted canvas by Corot, displaying a lone cart on a western road after a rain squall; it’s the mild shades and nuances that attract my interest, and for a complete second or two I am engrossed by it. Then, reminded of my task, I walk behind the woman, who shows no interest in my presence.

My forearm wraps around her neck and I face the room, feeling her body thrashing against mine in surprise. Her manicured nails are digging into my skin, but I show no notice; it is instead her screams that attract the crowd of eight or nine people left in the area. Before anyone has the good sense to run away, I speak in a tone of serenity, piqued with nervousness: “No one leave. I have a hostage, and I am armed. You,” I point to an old woman in a wide-brimmed hat with a frightened and baffled demeanour. “Close the doors.”

The withered woman shakily shuts the wide oak doors and walks back to her previous place. I nod in silent approval and speak once again, momentarily tightening my grip on the blond woman to stifle her shouts.

“What I want is simple. I want to be known; I want to be famous. All my life I’ve toiled through painting after painting, perfecting my art, and still I receive no recognition. The men and women whose masterpieces surround us fill me with both reverence and frustration, for I want to be as they were. Why don’t you like me?” My plead fills the cavernous hall. I use my left hand to grope the inside of my jacket for the device, and I find it and thrust it out into the empty air around me.

“See this? This is what will bring me together with the masterpieces I admire. All you art-gazers around me are not refined enough to understand my obsession, and I don’t expect you too. But this is necessary. I’m holding you here to ensure I can follow through without interruption, but no damage will be done to your persons. Please,” I gesture to a far corner, “go now, and do not interrupt.” And as sheep will, the group herds themselves nervously to the far corner of the chamber. The blond is still squirming in my arms, but I don’t care; instead I focus on a painting across from me, Rinaldo and Armida, by Nicolas Poussin. Armida is sent to kill the valiant crusader Rinaldo, but the soldier is only put to sleep before Armida recognizes the man’s beauty and falls in love.

How apt, I think. Perhaps I am Rinaldo, the brave artist who is being challenged by Armida, or the world; maybe when I am asleep will the world love me.

I throw the woman into the depth of the room, and she lands on her stomach, dazed and crying. I finger the device delicately and survey the beauty around me, ignoring her lamenting. To be one with art is to be great, I think. I am Rinaldo, who sleeps forever.

I initiate the device, and like a wave in the endless ocean, a current of electricity passes through the lead and a detonation ensues. Magnificence fades into darkness.

And finally, an eternal slumber brings me into eminent oblivion.

Author's Note

Keep in mind that this story was written quite a while ago, and as such it may seem a little primitive or unsophisticated compared to something written more recently. Treat it with kindness, but I am fair, and accept criticism where it is due =).

Reviews

[Tabitha Dings]

That was a pretty darn good story there buddy. Lol. It's sort of sad when you have him ending his life only to reach nothingness. It's disturbing to feel as if his thoughts were so deluded that he would believe his death to remain permanent. But that's a debate you and I will probably engage in using the messaging system. The story was deep, powerful, and should be a classic. Bravo.

[Grey]

wow. that ending was really powerful. i didn't really expect him to commit suidcide from the begining, but now the first paragraph makes sense. it was very descriptive. you chose powerful words. i never knew art was so violent...