Brent never considered himself to be a good judge of his own art but as he stepped back he couldn’t avoid the feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. It had taken him two weeks but it had been worth the effort. After all a part of that had been waiting for layers of paint to dry, which wasn’t really work. He wrapped the painting in brown paper to protect it from what the elements might throw at it, and once again ventured out of his lair. It was vanity on his part, he knew, to want to once again show a painting to someone who would appreciate it and have it displayed in the proper setting.
Brent reveled in the way that the women in the shop cooed over his painting, though he was a little concerned when they kept saying that it looked just like him. Though it had been a self portrait he hadn’t meant it to be too good. Still these had been the experiences he had dreamed of at one time; he had wanted nothing more then to have people praise his talent and now it was happening, again.
The winter streets seemed slightly more comfortable then they had for the last several months and Brent decided that rather then go back to his basement room right away like he usually did he would go out to eat. He had the money, though normally he hated to spend it, it seemed like a time of celebration some how though he couldn’t have said exactly what it was he was celebrating. It wasn’t really the new painting hanging in the gallery with the name Michael on the bottom and what he was assured really was his face looking at customers. Instead it was a feeling that he was celebrating, a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Like a dream Brent floated through dinner and drifted off for home.
Brent tried to run when he walked into the gallery a week later to find his agent looking at his self portrait thoughtfully, but he was far too late. The moment that he had walked into the art gallery the cage had been closed and the trap had been sprung. People who Brent recognized as close friends and family members came from all sides to block the exit and his agent turned to look at him.
“This is by far one of your better pieces of work. It was only by chance that I saw it of course. I still go through art galleries looking for talent. It’s a shame you didn’t sign it with your real name, it diminishes the value.”
“I don’t want to go back to that life,” Brent said, trying to back away from all of the familiar faces. The gallery owner seemed to be watching bemused.
“I understand it was stressful for you dear, we really should have found a psychologist for you, you have been having problems haven’t you?” asked his mother, trying to throw her arm around his neck. Brent ducked neatly away and found himself facing his best friend, who still had his cigarette in hand in spite of the no smoking sign on the door of the shop.
“That’s what they’re saying Brent, you know. They are saying that you’ve cracked, let the pressure get to you. That not everyone can be the greatest artist of our generation, and you let it get to you.”
“I suppose I did let the pressure get to me. Well I just don’t like it,” Brent admitted. “So I’ve left it, goodbye,” he tried to head for the door but his way was blocked.
“Your talent will find you out you know,” his agent said. “You can’t resist painting and you can’t resist sharing your paintings with the world. So long as you show such talent the world will find you and place you in a spot of importance.”
As they carried him away, Brent considered this. He paused only for a second to sign the self portrait with his real name and give the gallery owner permission to keep it before his was whisked away to wherever they kept truly talented artists. Except for one thing, Brent never painted again, he had reached his decision and if he would never be allowed his peace while painting he would surrender it. The self portrait still hangs in the gallery, insured for millions of dollars, as Brent’s last painting before he just sort of dried up, and arguably one of his best.
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