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The Painting -- Day 30

The Painting -- Day 30



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Published by hatedhero
This is the start of something big! I have a whole plot lined out for this NOVEL and I'm so excited!
April 30, 2012
This is the start of something big! I have a whole plot lined out for this NOVEL and I'm so excited!
April 30, 2012

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Published by: hatedhero on May 01, 2012
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved


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The painting is beautiful. Vibrant swirls of deep blues, greens, and yellows pull me into
its center. It’s massive, eight feet by ten, and I am incredibly dwarfed by it.
Everything about itis bold and complex. I begin to feel a little suffocated in its imposing presence. It holds suchdepth, such emotion, that it is almost three-dimensional, a gateway to a strangely abstract worldof color
. I’ve never seen anything like it.
 My eyes drift to the lower right corner, and I notice there is no signature on the painting.
There doesn’t need to be
, I realize
, not for Konstantin Hahn’s work
. The whole piece is asignature, a human being on canvas. A name
is a trivial thing compared to someone’s whole
identity. Forgetting where I am for a moment, I reach out a hand and gently touch the painting.The raised ridges of paint make my fingertips tingle.
“Hey!” A security guard jogs over to me and I jerk my hand away. “Don’t touch that,please.”
“Sorry,” I reply, though I am not really very sorry. He gives me
a curt nod and stalksoff.I sigh, turning my gaze back to the painting. Will my own artwork ever be this
communicative, I wonder? Maybe it’s not that it’s communicative, I think. Maybe I’m just an
emotional person.A sharp ring punctures the quiet murmur of the gallery. I hurriedly fish my cell phone outof my pocket, feeling irritated glares boring into my back.
“What is it, Karen?” I hiss. “I’m at the gallery.”
“I know you are!” my sister laugh
. “Have you seen anything interesting? I wish I couldbe there, more than anything.”
“Interesting,” I repeat quietly, staring at the painting in front of me. “Actually, I have.” I
proceed to tell her about the artist Konstantin Hahn, and the wonderful artwork hanging beforeme on the wall.
“Sounds incredible,” Karen said after I’d finished.“He is,” I agree.She sighs on the other end of the phone. “I wish I was there so bad.
But not everyone
can afford to fly out to New York, you know. I’ll let you go now, Jon. Have fun!” The phoneclicks, and she’s hun
g up.
“You really like this guy,” comes a voice from beside me.
“Huh?” I blink. “Oh, yeah.” Next to me stands a small, unobtrusive man with long
,dark hair pulled loosely into a decidedly artsy bun.
He’s young, probably at least a good eight
years youn
ger than me. If I had to guess I’d say around twenty.
He gives me a sidelong glanceand the tiniest of smiles. The expression in his brown-green eyes is hard to read.
“I think you give him a little too much credit,” the man said. “He doesn’t put much
ght into his work.”
 I frown, feeling a stirring of defensiveness
. “How would you know that?”
 He turns to face me, tapping his nametag with a wry smile.
 Konstantin Hahn.
“I guess…you would know, then,” I choke, dumbfounded.
 He grins broadly.
“Right you are.”
 The realization that
 I am talking to Konstantin Hahn
slams into me, and I struggle to forma coherent sentence in front of the man.
“I –
I love your work,” I sputter.His smile fades. “I heard you talking about it on the phone. It’s v
nice of you,” he
“And what did you mean before, about not putting thought into your art? I think it’sbeautiful,” I say, reverently gazing back at the painting.
 He shrugs.
“I don’t think about it. I don’t think about anything, really.” His eyes
have a
faraway look to them, and I get the feeling that he’s staring past me, not at me.
“Then…how do you do it?” I ask, nodding towards the painting.
“With paint,” he deadpans, his face stony. Then he cracks a smile. “I guess it’s not quite
that simple
, but I honestly couldn’t tell you much more than that. Art is something that justhappens to you. You don’t take art classes to improve your art, you do it so that you’re better at
using your medium. If 
you don’t see the art that happens
to you, it doesn’
t matter how good you
are at doing whatever it is you do. I’m not an emotional person,” he continues. “There isn’treally anything I care about, to be honest. I don’t feel…much at all.” His sentence trails off at the
end, and he looks curiously up at me.
My mind whirls. What do I say to that? “Art happens to you,” I repeat, smiling, tastingthe words. I like the concept. “What if art never happens to me?”

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Bill AKA "Kenosis23" added this note
This has more meat to it than what you've been doing, but you handle it really well! Five Stars!

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