Post by Devius on Sept 11, 2015 2:32:49 GMT
Steve loved painting. He’d been interested in it ever since he’d stumbled upon a rerun of The Joy of Painting, but for some reason it never occurred to him to try it out by himself until after the divorce. He’d been left with a barren apartment, but had found his expenses plummet and his free time soar. When he saw the painter starter kit for sale in the crafts store window, he decided it was finally time. Perhaps he could start decorating those naked walls with his own artwork, he figured as he set up the easel in the children’s room
He quickly discovered that he was awful at it.
Sure, he could paint a landscape with some majestic mountains and crooked firs. But only with the guidance of Bob Ross’ soothing, slightly robotic voice from his VHS recordings playing next to his canvas. Whenever he tried to be creative he ended up just painting the same majestic mountains and crooked firs, only without the sense of depth and the shadows all wrong.
Steve never produced a painting he was satisfied enough to put up on the walls. Yet he still felt that buying art to decorate the walls was a waste, since he could just make his own. And so the walls remained dull and naked.
Whenever he finished a painting, he would step back and try to see its wholesomeness, the ending tune of The Joy of Painting still fresh in his mind. Every time he would sigh and put the canvas away in the closet, not even bothering to let the paint try.
His closet was nearly filled to its limit when Steve began to burn the paintings.
It had been in the aftermath of a lonely New Year’s Eve. The constant thunder of fireworks had died down to an infrequent smattering and Steve didn’t even feel like finishing the beer he had opened. He felt so pathetic, the emotion was choking him. He decided he needed to get out, take a walk. Anything to shake that feeling off of him.
He reached into the closet to get his coat when he brushed against a canvas and got paint on his shirt. One of his better shirts. Why he had decided to dress up when celebrating all alone, he didn’t know, but now his shirt was ruined. Steve was furious, and grabbed the painting to crack it across his knee in spite, but he only ended up with a stain on his pants and a stinging feeling in his leg.
Steve spluttered a tirade of obscenities, swore at the fucking paintings, his shit life, his dick-stabbing ex wife. He began to pick up the paintings, one for each target of his hatred. Once he had his arms filled with paintings, his shirt stained with pine brown and mountain grey, he wanted to throw them all in the trash, but they were too big to fit into the chute.
Swearing some more, he carried them all down the stairs and threw them in the back of his truck. He drove out of town to the middle of a field and put them in a pyre. The wet snow refused to let the paintings catch fire at first, but a splash of gasoline got it started and the oil in the paints did the rest.
Watching those paintings burn was oddly comforting. Steve felt his anger fade and the sense of patheticness eased up. When the fire started going out, he drove home and loaded every single one of his paintings on the truck. The resulting bonfire made Steve feel better than he had in years.
The next year, Steve continued to paint. But he was no longer limited to majestic mountains or crooked pines, he painted whatever made him made him feel like shit at the time. Of course, the resulting artwork was even worse than his Bob Ross-guided landscapes, but it didn’t matter. Every New Year’s Eve, Steve drove out of town and burned everything he’d painted in the previous twelve months.
It was a comforting tradition, an act of cleansing. Maybe even an offering to the gods of art. Steve wondered if Bob Ross had been deified for his work as an ambassador of painting. It only seemed fair, he concluded.
The walls of Steve’s flat remained naked for the rest of his life, but it didn’t matter. Steve loved painting.
He quickly discovered that he was awful at it.
Sure, he could paint a landscape with some majestic mountains and crooked firs. But only with the guidance of Bob Ross’ soothing, slightly robotic voice from his VHS recordings playing next to his canvas. Whenever he tried to be creative he ended up just painting the same majestic mountains and crooked firs, only without the sense of depth and the shadows all wrong.
Steve never produced a painting he was satisfied enough to put up on the walls. Yet he still felt that buying art to decorate the walls was a waste, since he could just make his own. And so the walls remained dull and naked.
Whenever he finished a painting, he would step back and try to see its wholesomeness, the ending tune of The Joy of Painting still fresh in his mind. Every time he would sigh and put the canvas away in the closet, not even bothering to let the paint try.
His closet was nearly filled to its limit when Steve began to burn the paintings.
It had been in the aftermath of a lonely New Year’s Eve. The constant thunder of fireworks had died down to an infrequent smattering and Steve didn’t even feel like finishing the beer he had opened. He felt so pathetic, the emotion was choking him. He decided he needed to get out, take a walk. Anything to shake that feeling off of him.
He reached into the closet to get his coat when he brushed against a canvas and got paint on his shirt. One of his better shirts. Why he had decided to dress up when celebrating all alone, he didn’t know, but now his shirt was ruined. Steve was furious, and grabbed the painting to crack it across his knee in spite, but he only ended up with a stain on his pants and a stinging feeling in his leg.
Steve spluttered a tirade of obscenities, swore at the fucking paintings, his shit life, his dick-stabbing ex wife. He began to pick up the paintings, one for each target of his hatred. Once he had his arms filled with paintings, his shirt stained with pine brown and mountain grey, he wanted to throw them all in the trash, but they were too big to fit into the chute.
Swearing some more, he carried them all down the stairs and threw them in the back of his truck. He drove out of town to the middle of a field and put them in a pyre. The wet snow refused to let the paintings catch fire at first, but a splash of gasoline got it started and the oil in the paints did the rest.
Watching those paintings burn was oddly comforting. Steve felt his anger fade and the sense of patheticness eased up. When the fire started going out, he drove home and loaded every single one of his paintings on the truck. The resulting bonfire made Steve feel better than he had in years.
The next year, Steve continued to paint. But he was no longer limited to majestic mountains or crooked pines, he painted whatever made him made him feel like shit at the time. Of course, the resulting artwork was even worse than his Bob Ross-guided landscapes, but it didn’t matter. Every New Year’s Eve, Steve drove out of town and burned everything he’d painted in the previous twelve months.
It was a comforting tradition, an act of cleansing. Maybe even an offering to the gods of art. Steve wondered if Bob Ross had been deified for his work as an ambassador of painting. It only seemed fair, he concluded.
The walls of Steve’s flat remained naked for the rest of his life, but it didn’t matter. Steve loved painting.