The artist lives to create art. Consider. He lives, and lives for one
reason only. Art. Not paintings, nor music, nor even the greatest of all
pleasures, poetry. Art, the abstract ideal, beckons him. Create. Where
others merely take what is already there and give objects new shapes, the
artist creates beauty where there was none before. Art is the only true
act of creation of which man is capable. The artist lives to create art.
He is the only one who truly lives for his profession. The baker does not
live to bake bread; rather he bakes bread to live. Take the businessman.
He creates nothing.
No matter how hard he tries, all he can ever hope to achieve is money. We should not hold it against him, for it is not his fault he was not called to the divine service of art; rather, we should pity him. For even as he is unable to create art, he is also cursed with an inability to understand it. Understanding art is truly as divine as creating it. Alas, once again, only the artist will truly understand art. For in the soul of the artist burns a passion that no mere mortal can match, much less comprehend. On every piece of art, the artist stamps his soul, yet none but other artists can see it. And that is the curse of the artist. The need to express the deepest core of one's being, only to have it overlooked, neglected, even ridiculed by those who cannot understand.
Yet the artist needs an audience. For the art would be nothing without a witness. And that is why you are here. For this artwork is special. I have been creating it for many years, though I did not always know it. And soon, I will finish. But to understand the end, you first must hear of the beginning.
My name is Eve Nai II, poet and artist extraordinaire. Even at an early age I created works of inestimable value. My mother appreciated them. She had the soul of an artist. Alas, it was not to be; she had the bad fortune to marry my father. He just complained that I was getting paint on the walls.
Painting was my earliest form of expression. My work was brilliant. By the age of twelve I had formed my own school of art. Impressionism and Surrealism were far too structured for my taste. Hence, I founded the school of Simplism. The concept was quite ingenious. On each canvas I painted only one object, a formless one-color mass with no relation to reality. It was genius, pure and simple. Of course, my teacher never understood any of this. She told me to try harder, like the other kids. As if one of them ever produced anything approaching art.
The teacher eventually decided I was hopeless and refused to teach me art any longer. So, every day, while sitting staring into the corner, I took to writing poetry.
Poetry is a much higher form of art than painting. I owe my teacher a debt of gratitude; had it not been for her I might have remained a painter indefinitely. Poetry quickly consumed me. The day I was kicked out of school, I began collecting the materials I would need. I procured fine, strong black ink from the local grocery store. My sketch paper served admirably to write upon. I penned volumes upon volumes of the purest poetry. I was inspired, as never before; for days I did not sleep, nor eat, but only wrote and wrote. By my fourteenth year I had sonnets that would have made the Bard (for that is what we poets call old Billy Shakespeare) blush. By seventeen, the muse would hardly have been qualified to critique my writings. These were the best years of my life, yet one thing was missing. An audience. The stone walls of my room, while attentive, seemed no replacement for the eyes and ears of my fellow people. Had I only been content with my walls, my loyal walls, might I still feel bliss to this day? Alas, I turned to that most vicious of all institutions, the newspaper.
The poem I submitted was not my best by any stretch of the imagination. I feared that if the huddled masses read the greatest of my works, they might be struck dead by the very shock. Better to break them in gently. The poem went thus:
My task was nearly done; I had only to select a newspaper. My work generally kept me far too busy to read one myself, so I was quite at a loss to choose the right one. Having no great number of friends to probe for information, I enlisted the aid of the first newspaper boy I saw roaming the street. Before telling me anything, he insisted I buy a paper. This I gladly did. He then told me of The Daily Balderdash (which, curiously enough, was the same paper he had sold me). At great length he extolled its many virtues, its supreme insight, and its vast readership. "The Daily Balderdash it will be!" I replied, flipping the boy a nickel. I dashed back to my apartment to send my poetry. Nearly as quickly, I left again for the post office, in search of a stamp. This in hand, I had no trouble delivering my manuscript.
It was published, no questions asked. There was the slight problem of placement; they placed it in the classified section rather than the front page. I can only assume that most people skip the front page to go straight to the classifieds; the paper only wanted to make sure my great work was where the most people would read it. Also, there was the small problem of payment. Somehow, they thought I was to pay them to have my poetry printed, rather than the other way around. I was untroubled by these petty concerns; after all, the public could now read my work, and they were all that mattered. Besides, next time, I would tell the paper to pay me in advance.
I waited two months to publish my next piece, partly for effect, but mostly because it took me that long to earn enough money to pay off my debt to the newspaper. This time I would not hold back. The public would have my best work; they deserved no less. One poem was clearly not enough. No, I would fashion a special supplement for the paper, to contain nothing but my own work. I polished it off in no time, attached a note concerning payment, and sent it off to the paper. In another month, not having heard from them, I assumed it must have been lost in the mail and sent another. This time, a reply came, saying that the newspaper did not publish junk. I wrote that I was sure it did not and attached a third copy of my manuscript, just in case. This was returned torn to pieces. Certain of a conspiracy by the post office, I went off to see the editors in person.
I managed to meet with the editor after having only minor difficulty with his secretary, which I easily remedied with the aid of a small club. I stepped into the dingy office. The first thing I noticed was not the editor, but, rather, a collection of swords and axes in a display case. This I took to be a good sign. Surely a man who could see the beauty in these crude implements would stand in awe of my supreme genius. I located him presently. The Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Balderdash, Mr. M. Cann, was not the sort of man likely to be overlooked. Rather, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He stood fully six foot one with the proportions of a linebacker. Coupled with facial features to make a caveman blush and a badly marred complexion, his image brought the word "ogre" unbidden to my mind. I was not to be deterred, and started to talk of poetry. Not a breath after the word "poetry" had crossed my lips, his gruff voice bellowed "We don't publish poetry." No amount of my arguing, even combined with the quite incontrovertible fact that he already had published just such a thing, could turn him from this peculiar position. I continued on, though it clearly brought my companion no small amount of discomfort. I persevered, knowing that if he could only be persuaded to listen to a poem, he would realize what an ass he had been, apologize profusely, and beg me for all the material I could supply. Eventually, he acquiesced (his exact words I cannot recall, but they were to the effect of "One poem, if it will get you to leave."), and I proceeded to sing.
As I concluded, the strangest things happened. First, the hue of Mr. Cann's face changed from pink (with red spots) to green, to orange, to red in the course of three seconds flat. Then he leapt from his desk, demonstrating litheness not often found in one his size. The object of this leap, I soon learned to be one of the larger axes in his display case. This he proceeded to swing in a most ungentlemanly fashion. Unable to fathom these strange movements and not wishing to agitate my friend any further, I left posthaste. Clearly, I would accomplish nothing until his mood brightened.
A terrible thought struck me. What if the editor hated his job? I might never find him in a good mood, unless I could meet him in a more familiar setting. Unfortunately, his address was beyond the scope of my knowledge, and I thought him unlikely to divulge it to me in his present condition, so I did what any rational person would have done in my position. I found the parking space labeled "Chief Editor Only" and hid in the back of his car. After a short wait, the door opened, and the car started. We were not long on the road, when I noticed a small gasoline spill on the floor of his car. The fumes were quite strong, and I did not wish to compromise my health, so I stood up. Mr. Cann turned around, and his eyes bulged out of his head. He grabbed me by the ears, and seemed to try earnestly to pull them off. No doubt this feat was well within his abilities, but fortunately, his car, left free to wander wherever it wished, drifted into the path of a passing truck.
Both of our comas were short; his lasted five weeks, while mine lasted six. The damage to my relationship with Mr. Cann was far more permanent. He sent a plea to court asking for a restraining order to be placed against me. It succeeded. This I could have borne. He sent goons to burn down my home. This also, caused little pain. He published an editorial, warning all others about "the wretched filth that bears the label 'poetry' in the twisted mind of Eve Nai." This stung deeply. I took consolation in the certainty that the populace could not agree with this raving megalomaniac. Alas, the next day, the paper printed responses from every editor in the city, each more vicious than the last.
So that is why I am here, atop the scaffolding in the print room of the Daily Balderdash. I will finish creating my masterpiece for which my whole life has been mere preparation. And I will be in the papers. Oh yes, when the presses start in a few minutes, I will be all over the news. But for now, I must just savor the air. Feel how the tension just hangs in it. I think I shall miss the air most of all. Hark. The presses are starting. Now I must act, and you must witness. Behold. I leap, and with that, I bid you adieu.