Story | The Last Artwork | 1300 words
Trigger warning: Suicide.
The sculptor put her tools down and breathed a sigh of relief. With her forearm she wiped away the bits of marble dust that clung to the sweat dripping from her brow. She took a step back, ignoring the other person in the room for a moment, while she fully took in the piece that she had just finished putting the final touches on.
20 feet in diameter, a perfect circular slab of marble sat in the middle of the room. The edge of the white stone was given a half bullnose bevel, soft to the touch and without a single note of grit or roughness. It in a manner of speaking, resembled a cookie… Of sorts. Just not the kind you would want to eat lest you lose your teeth.
She had spent three years making sure the piece was a true circle through the assistance of patient chipping, pieces of thread, and the advisement of several accomplished mathematicians. While some of them were initially hesitant to aid her in the creation of this piece- having been clued into the final end goal by the local newspaper, they were inevitably swayed by her unyielding determination.
She had spent an additional two years making sure the piece was sanded down to a slick sheen, to the point where a single drop of water placed dead center would slowly but surely find its way to an edge and then down the side.
She then spent the final year advertising the artwork, putting her accounts in arrears, and accomplishing the last vestigial experiences that she wished at least partially to peruse.
That is- all the mathematicians had helped her, except for one.
A younger and pluckier geometer who had made it a personal vendetta to visit every day and steer her away from her plan.
“Why not paint the great tower?” he asked, gesturing wide. “I’ve heard of its awesome majesty from all those who’ve seen it.”
“Boring. Been there, done that.” she replied. “At some time in my twenties. Eons ago, now.”
“Why not do it again?” he persisted.
She scoffed and shot him a glare. “Do I need to paint a picture of every building? It’s just a regular tower but larger. Once you realize that my dear, it loses some of this reputed ‘majesty’.”
“Fine.” he said with a shrug. “Paint a pot of fruit, and swap in a different bundle each time. Therefore it will always be new, and it will always have fresh majesty. Emphasis on ‘fresh’.”
She shook her head in refusal. “So that it will join the thousands of other paintings of fruit? Are you the type to walk in an art museum of the ‘greats’, and look at the thousand paintings of fruit, the hundred paintings of angels, the dozen paintings of buildings- and commanders- and messiahs, and the… Well, millions if we’re being honest, of paintings of naked women- and extol their virtues?”
“Well…” he timidly began to reply.
“Do you look upon them all and gush about how ‘great’ the old masters were? How ‘great’ and ‘cultural’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘inspiring’ and ‘perfect’ the paintings made by long dead men with too much lust for homogeneity in them? The men paid money to paint fruit? To paint naked women? To paint the buildings built by other men with too much money so that they could hang the pieces in the buildings they built, look at them, and jerk off?” The poison in her voice seeped with every word.
He blushed at the sexual remark and puffed himself up. “They are not without merit!” he shouted in defense. “Think of the Mona Lisa! Leonardo spent ages over each painstaking detail! The essence of woman was captured by his inscrutable skill over four years of effort!”
She nodded along with his words but clucked at him with chastisement by the end. “And they make machines now that can paint a thousand pretty pictures of women with a thousand pretty details in only one-thousandth of a second. Are these pictures less of an art? Are they more of an art? Do they-“ and she shot him an accusing look, “capture more or less of the essence of woman?”
He faltered in silence.
“Is art just the amount of time you put into a piece? Is the value determined by the one who made it? By the method they made it? Perhaps it’s by the freshness of the subject matter. Paint a different woman, paint a newer woman, paint a bigger building-“ she threw her hands up in the air, “paint the biggest goddamned building ever built, and then build a bigger building to house the painting of the second biggest building-“ and she spun on him, jabbing a finger in his direction, “and then fucking paint that too.” She spit on the floor a glob of green ichor. “Is that art then?”
He grumbled and kicked a foot, sending a small chisel hammer flying to the opposite corner of the room, matching the intensity of her exasperation. “So what, THIS is art then!?”
She smiled and sat down in a nearby chair with a huff.
He watched as she regarded him in the quiet silence that hesitantly crept back into the room in the space between their arguments.
“It will be.” she whispered.
“You’re delusional.” he remarked.
“Cleared by no less then ten psychologists.” she replied.
“The state won’t let you.” he shot back with a grimace.
“I’ve greased the right hands. The state has no authority on my body-“ with a frown she added, “at least in this instance.”
“I’ll stop you.” he feigned with mock intimidation.
She looked at him, and a mix of sadness, smugness, and pity tinged the mixed cerulean colors of her eyes. “I choose to do this.”
“Reconsider, please, in the name of the father.” he took a knee before her.
“I answer to no one.”
“Reconsider, please, in the name of your child.” he took her hand in his.
“Past to sickness.”
“Reconsider, please, in the name of life.” he begged with a simpering tone.
“I’m eighty.” she said with a chuckle.
“Please… Paint a hundred more paintings…” - “I did.” - “Please- breath a thousand more breaths…” - “I have.” - “Please! I implore you, reconsider.” - “Oh, that was yesterday’s project.” she said with a wink.
“Why? For fame? For glory? For- for- for money?”
“Wouldn’t be able to make much use of that would I?” she teased.
“Then why?”
“This is my right. Simple as. It’s the purest, most genuine, last artwork that I can make.”
The day of, the air was clear and crisp. The sun was quiet and bright. The crowd was massive and calm.
With each rung of the ladder she climbed over the marble dais her courage was reaffirmed and resolute.
As she reached the top she felt the wind caress and jostle the strands of her hair alongside her head.
She peered down at them, their expectant and waiting faces. The kaleidoscope of onlookers and watchers.
She did not see his among them.
The body was removed from the stone, of course, and cremated as per a will.
The blood that found its way to an edge and then down a side was let to dry.
The marble piece was stained with a dozen tiny stranded rivers of red.
Eventually it would sell for millions, and after some legal dispute, would be placed inside of a big building that housed paintings of fruit, women, and other bigger buildings. One painting even had all three.
The dais had a small placard that read,
Cheers, and thanks for reading.
- Vess