Meet the Artist

<Optionally, bar ambiances>

I can hear you approaching from behind, writer.

Sorry to startle you. I just don't like being sneaked upon.

[Long sigh]

I know why you're here already. You've been hitting up all the patrons of this place to get their secrets or stories or whatever.

Mr. Fletcher has been very transparent about your intentions and being here.

[Sigh] The bartender who serves you? First name Crow, last name Fletcher. Commit people's names to memory. Especially if you're going to rip off their lives for profit.

Don't intend to do that...pssh. Right. They all say that.

My name is Emilia. That's the only name I go by. It is what is signed on my ID. It is the name I would sign on my paintings. It is what I want to be called. Just...Emilia.

I would much rather prefer you call me nothing and leave. There are plenty of other bar patrons to harass.

{Pause, Awkward}

[Pointedly] Look, I know what you do. You go up to someone and you give them attention, and keep annoying them until they spill their secrets. I want absolutely no part of it. I have no secrets to share.

I was an artist. A painter, more specifically. I no longer do it. Whatever you want from me is long gone.

{Pause}

Crow said I was nice? Yeah, because I am nice. Nice to those that deserve it. Some out-of-towner, nosy writer is not one of them.

{Pause}

Ugh, ask me one single question and then you'll leave. You better not be lying to me. Fine. Ask away oh divine frustration delivered by the gods. 

What kind of stuff did I paint? Well isn't that a lame ask. Did you not do background research on the people you've come to torment?

{Pause}

Realism, mostly. Backgrounds, still-life. Things I could look at.

You can't see any of it because I burned it all.

"Tell you more about that" and why should I?

{Pause}

It wasn't a waste to burn 'em. It was the best thing I could've done.

You know what piece put me on the map? Huh? A Bowl of Thirteen Limes. I painted limes and people acted like it was some miracle. I just wanted to get rid of some old green paint. Suddenly I'm being asked to go to galleries and galas like a one-hit wonder.

I tried other fruits. Lemons, tangerines, kiwi. People ate it up, too. But what's the point of some shit like that? All this effort to try and make great work for it to be upended by a bowl of fruit? Paparazzi would stalk me. News outlets would write bogus stories about whatever I had for lunch that day. Artists would come to me and ask about my inspirations and motives.

I can't stand it. I can't stand them, I can't stand that life, and I can barely tolerate ever painting another fruit again.

I'm not ever going to paint again.

{Pause}

Don't look so shocked, it's not revolutionary here. I came into this as a hobby. I wanted something to do to pass the time. A relaxing task. Not something with an audience or expectations or pressure.

Definitely not something involving money.

That's the thing about art nowadays. It's never about the art. It's not about creating or experimenting or being original or being traditional...it's about making money.

People will lie and say its not. Say they're not in it for the cash, that it's their heart's desire...but they're lying. They're lying! 

The moment you even think about selling a piece of art, you taint it for profit. Some people need to eat, sure, but it's not art that they're making anymore.

Others do it for their status. Money status, mind you. Make bogus works to uphold their own inflated value. It's sickening.

Art needs to be made to exist in isolation. Nobody should make it with the expectation of being seen.

We used to value art. Put it everywhere. Cover the world in statues, paints, textiles...

Even our pillars had design that mattered.

Imagine if our world today did that. Can you? If art wasn't a forced financial exchange and means to an end, but something we treasured and encouraged as a creative baseline?

Probably not. You're no different than the others.

Don't give me such a nasty look. You know I'm right. You write your little stories or whatever it is you're doing and get paid for it. Maybe it's by commission, maybe it's by salary. But you're absolutely getting paid.

There's no way someone like you just has the spare coin around to come to a little shithole like this without having a way to pay it off.

And...if I had to wager a bet, I'd suggest that this isn't the first little town you've been to either. Well traveled, well spoken...know how to conduct yourself and how to slip into safe routines...

Sure. Not in it for the money. Whatever you say.

{Pause}

But you know what the funny part is?

I still have that itch. That feverish need to create. To make something. To capture what I see and put it into a work. It doesn't go away no matter what I do. It's sickening.

I'm forcibly compelled to create, but nothing I make is worth creating. What a sick joke. I bet that's how God feels, sometimes. If there even is one.

I'm a bitch of principles. If I commit to never painting again, I won't. No matter how hard the urge to do the opposite may be.

Now, though, I'm at this...spiritual gridlock, so to speak. Too unmotivated to do much of anything except sit here and look out the window, hoping something changes.

Never does, around here. And even if the coals start to heat up, someone—er, something seems to swoop in and snuff it out before a fire blazes.

So I sit here, static, with my pathetic little juices. Remnants of fruits...much like those infernal paintings I've learned to loathe.

I've often thought about trying to die a dramatic death. But what's the point? I'll still be known as a painter. An artist. Someone who sold out their skills and talents for a couple of dollars and a flashbulb of spotlight.

[Sigh]

Doesn't it eat you alive? Being chained to the work you make? Knowing that no matter what kind of legacy you hope to leave that it will always be prefixed with "writer"?

Is that all we're meant to achieve?

Ugh. You did it. You got me to talk. Are you happy? Are you proud of yourself for getting me to break like that? My night is ruined. Go leave me alone. I've answered your one question like you've asked. Now go.

<Fade out; optionally and if brave, with the beginning of tears/crying>

END.