His Inner Dali

"So this is art?"

He was talking to himself yet again, this time in public. He didn't care though, the stares from onlookers did not faze him at all. He revelled in their displeasure so much so that he smiled. While walking down the gallery space; he could almost feel the vibrations from the artworks-as if they were in the process of being made. One caught his eye, The Water Lillies by Claude Monet.

"This is more than an impression." Walking passed these light-hearted paintings of Claude Monet; he felt a staunch contempt of their design. These artworks were aesthetically pleasing and having no abstract meaning; they did not represent his interests. Although he did not like them; he could find no heinous comment for them. It composed like a song, harmonious in its melody. It was made to find the meaning in light while he sought for answers in the dark. He nodded his head at his thoughts.

A lot needed to be dealt with before he felt fulfilled as an artist. It was necessary for him to find his voice, his whisper among the colours. He smiled while walking out and exiting the Orangerie Museum; the Tuileries garden opened up to him. He walked out into the garden with confidence that reached deeper than roots.

Driving back home, he turned off the music and listened to the churning of the engine. He had his sunglasses on and a smirk that could kill. He had no problems with women in fact; he loved them. He loved them so much he wished to explore their bodies in ways normal men wouldn't. In his art, he usually depicts women; males bore him. In Greek times males were often adored because of the idea of the universal man and that man represented thought. In art, female sculptures are scarce; he found that absurd. He felt as though it was his duty as a man to enhance women' beauty in his art. Of course, in the way in which he sees them.

His home represented him fully in all shape and form. It was like walking into a modern Dali landscape, a surreal experience-made real. Its outward appearance was false, as its inside bore fruit worthy for a creative. Sculptures hung on strings; found-objects were in display cases and abstractions like graffiti, were on the walls. The furniture looked Baroque in style with Rococo curtains. It looked like a piece of history-Impressions were painted onto the roof with angel characters and the floors were a mess of colour that gave it a contemporary feel.

Like art, it all made sense. There was a pitchfork made as a found-object plastered onto the wall, inspired by The American Gothic artwork. He took off his shoes and slipped them into his slippers made of hair and walked into his cubic themed hallway. His artworks were on the walls, both his prints and pastel works. He was mainly a sculptor, that's where his passion laid. When he did paint, he'd create grotesque works, stark haunting figures with gangly limbs. The worst drawing was a charcoal print of a baby's tragic end with a coat hanger. His most recent work is in a series of triage called Attacked, they contain odd interpretations of the female figure that have a dark undertone involving martyrdom.

There was another side to the house, a much lighter one. He would sob at how excellent the paintings hung on the Vincent side of the house. He'd revel in their brilliance, sit for hours and watch them as if they were moving images. His lip-shaped sofa would be his throne, and he'd occasionally look to the west at a door that led to his morbid obsession. He felt like a different person in this section of the house; he felt as though a weight was on his shoulders. A weight that could only be lifted by his passion, and so he'd reminisce in the harsh lighting of the room.

He walked into that room on the west side; he didn't know what to call it because it wasn't a basement. Behind the door laid his second personality, a more obscure one that delved into his dark mind. He hesitated to turn the golden doorknob and puffed a frustrated sigh before opening it. The weight he felt in the previous room soon lifted, and he felt reborn. The air was bitter-sweet, and new confidence rose in his chest. He clicked his neck, rolled his shoulders and clicked his knuckles. There was an ominous aura about him as if a growl hid in his throat. He stood in the doorframe and turned on the light with the stretch of his hand. His works were about to be on display, for him as a godly form.

Unlike Edvard Munch and all those frivolous artists, he was no emotive artist. Although he did have a history of having severe depression, it did not cripple his social well-being. He aspired to be something different, not another Andy Warhol but a new and refreshed Henri Matisse.