The Artist's Brain

A dimly lit study, grey night, cluttered desk. A crazed artist sits still, pondering. He ponders life, art, relationships, contentment, religion, rhetoric, society, perception, and the impossible. His papyrus remains undirtied by his graphite, empty and bored. The young artist stares angrily at it and it winks at him, teasing. He scowls, barks at it, falls back into thought. His brain itches. Metaphors topple out and evaporate into space before they can be collected. The artist snatches at them but they are gone, snickering at him until they disappear to leave him again to his bitter silence. Thoughts rattle in his brain louder and louder, shaking it about in his skull like a jumping bean, irritating his existence to the point of absurdity. Orange striped doves weightlessly float past his imagination, countless toenail clippings fade into cream-soaked racing scooters before melding together to create an enormous black statue of a treble clef, suspended midair by eight dozen cherry-filled hot air balloons.

Nonsense. He returns. Gains his bearings. Blinks. The page remains blank and the frustrated artist bangs his clenched fist against his desk. The desk winces slightly, recoiling from the blow. The irritated artist’s hand throbs too but he only bares his teeth quickly and exhales slowly to recapture his previous composure. Bored of the stagnant room, the conscientious artist opens his ears. He pretends he can hear a grandfather clock methodically clicking, its delicate sound waves slicing through the air and tickling his eardrums, giving him comfort in his solitude. There is no clock. He is alone. He and thoughts.

The brain jitters again. This time with a tickling sensation brinking on epiphany. “At last” thinks the relieved artist, but hastily quells this thought to allow the epiphany room to germinate. He doesn’t stop to think “this is important”. He doesn’t pick up his graphite. No. He opens his eyes wide, concentrating on not concentrating. The left thigh begins to twitch uncontrollably and he lets it. The thigh thanks him and continues for a spell and then the artist can’t feel the body he assumes he owns. The brain twirls and flops and squeezes, it dances an elaborate neo-modern piece inside the artist, it is the artist himself and yet its own commodity, confined to his body, a trapped fugitive trying to escape. The terrified artist dares not move and so remains motionless inside his study, but the brain is elsewhere. Soon it can constrain itself no longer and plans its exit stratagem. Through the pores, it calculates. Through the pores.

The sly artist eavesdrops on the thoughts but does nothing to prevent them flowing. The imaginary clock stops ticking as time itself freezes, icy cold, and the brain forces the willing artist to shiver, stimulating the skin. Opening the pores. The restless brain catapults itself towards the skull and crashes, slumps, groans. The dazed artist’s left eye is forced shut. The determined brain decides on osmosis, and funnels its thoughts through the synapses until they reach the pores. Soon the internal pathways are clogged and thoughts leak out. The statuesque artist allows it to happen. The brewing epiphany seeps out his pores. It is slimy, gelatinous, midnight blue, like the blood of a dragon. The curious artist is tempted to lick it, but the cautious brain restrains him. The epiphany pours out systematically, forming a substantial pool of thought on the cluttered desk. It trickles over the empty papyrus, which immediately takes notice and sputters for help as it begins to drown. The paralyzed artist quakes gently, silently, as thoughts emanate from his brain, slithering out uncontrollably until the entirety of the epiphany has been released and the desk overflows with genius. The study falls back into its sedulous tranquility, the atmosphere reeks of anticipation, the artist’s eyes pop shut. Blinks. “Has anything happened?” he wonders, and he anxiously peers down at his desk. It doesn’t wave to him and he becomes skeptical. He peers around the room from his seat. It is still. He doesn’t imagine the grandfather clock in the corner. He remembers how he is alone. The depressed artist glances down at his page. Curious. It is filled with graphite, patterned lines and swoops, sketches, drawings, characters, letters, words, sentences, ideas. He looks it over. It is perfect.

Was this his? It was not the artist who was able to transfer it to the page. It is not a translation from thought to substance that he is looking at, it is pure thought direct from the brain, now lounging, collapsed and exhausted in his skull, perusing its handiwork. The selfish artist decides it is his. His brain, his words, his art, his brilliance. Guilt overtakes him, no doubt a message sent from the brain, informing him of the truth. The artist decides to ignore it. He smiles at the page, laughs. The first sound to be emitted from the dimly lit study for some time. The greedy artist picks up the page, stands. Pushes in the seat. Organizes the desk. Puts away his graphite. He leaves the study spread the word, expose the epiphany. He closes the door, does not notice his heavy shoe splash in an infinitesimal puddle of midnight blue.