The Tortured Artist

Picture this:

In the Mental hospital in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.

Van Gogh muttering to himself in his room, with a palette of many colours. He mixes primary colours to get his pigments. He looks through the window unparsed by the bars. He starts to twirl swirls with the flick of his wrist he is in a self-imposed state. A nurse strides in, carrying his morning meal but he remains fixed. She drops the medicine into his drink, puts it on the counter. He's silent but his neighbours aren't. He is an emotive artist. Splaying his feelings onto the canvas. His neighbours don't understand him, call him a loner. One does notice this silent man. One with a dusty paintbrush.

 He was inspired the one day when watching through his window; standing in the frame. Van Gogh would paint the gardens, the patients walking about. Oblivious to his secret admirer who mimicked his technique to only be frustrated. Van Gogh had even been given a studio, an extra room to produce a series of artworks. His secret admirer had the confidence to approach him the one day. 

"As for me, my health is good, and as for the head it will, let's hope, be a matter of time and patience."

 He gave his admirer more reason to idolize him. He tried countless times to create art. It just led to his demise, in that he never felt fulfilled by his work. It made him question art. What is art? There is no art that is good or bad or deemed unworthy to public appeal. He thought to himself while strolling the pale corridors with flowers marking the windowsill. Van Gogh would paint what was in front of him, he thought. What about painting internal, what lies inside. He didn't dare open the shadows of his mind in fear that it would consume him. But isn't that art? To create something miraculous that would shock people, create awe in their minds. Or is art conventional? Is it conceptual? He fought these thoughts daily but decided to face his inner core.

The room lacked creativity. The walls were white. He'd used it as a canvas, to only be dragged away by the nurses. He'd sit with his mangled thoughts in the corner, weeping. "Is blood not thicker than paint?" he flustered. He decided to barricade himself in his room; to stop the judgment of the doctors. He had a canvas, only one. He needed only one, for the other was complete. He sat naked, near the window covered with his mattress. He started to thread his skin with a knife he stole from the kitchen, slicing from his chest he cried. He'd stop in-between, to catch his breath. Watch as the liquid flowed down to his member. The nurses caught on to his act, trying to open the door. But he started already, to mark the canvas with his medium. He had already plastered it with acrylic, adding blood would be his impasto. He would sob in-between screams, he's looking to the wall, remembering that he was the artwork.

"Is this art?" he'd ask himself. 

He had pieces of himself in a bucket, thin strips of skin. He picked them up, watched droplets of red dot his palm. And he started to mould it, taking a thread and crafting an object. As if it were cloth he created a makeshift butterfly, with his chest hair and matter. He made clean cuts, to him it was beautiful. When he started to feel his strength fading he went to his canvas, with his thumb he finger-painted onto the acrylic. They were trying to jam open the door, they were nearly inside. When he was done, he took a step back to admire it. To cry. He went to the wall, sat down and leaned his head onto the brick. A bellowing scream escaped his lips and he started to bang his head against the wall. A foot appeared in the crack of the door, his head cracked at the crown. He carried on, marking the wall with colour. One knock, the second killed him.

His body was cold by the time they reached him, his face unrecognizable. His head had a dent, and his brain was displayed. Blood splatter leads to the image on the wall, colourful the red of his blood decorated her dress. It was of a woman laying down, with her body to the side and her hand out. She looked as if she was reaching to him as if he needed a helping hand. The flesh on his bed, the object that caused a blonde nurse to scream was of a butterfly, with its wings almost glued to the sheets. When the doctor came in, with the crinkling moustache he looked to the canvas on the easel. The portrait was of a figure, screaming as if in such agonizing pain he wasn't able to voice it. The doctor looked to the patient, his heart out to him.

"Sell it," he said.

"He has no family," he walked to the door, "Everything about him, is amiss."