It’s All In His Head
Hal couldn’t sleep. His internal demons were incessant: Hal! You’re a loser! You’ll never make it!
You’re too old. You’ve made all the wrong decisions. You suck!
These were everyday criticisms. The hourly ones were specific: You should have used the red paint. Jackson Gallery is moving away from abstract art. Your lines aren’t as confident as they used to be.
When Hal learned that many artists had these thoughts, he was relieved. It’s not just me. I’m not a madman. I’ll continue.
In his brightly lit studio, Hal sipped coffee from a cracked, paint-smudged mug. He stared at a large, white, looming blank canvas. A void. I could fall into that. Nobody would find me. I’d be gone.
The images in his head came and went. He tried to paint while they were there. What made them appear and disappear into the ether? I’m on the verge of a breakdown. It doesn’t matter. I can’t hold on.
With a few strokes of the paintbrush, he decided to persist, for another minute, hour, day. The lines are good. The picture works. Images complement each other. It’s fusion, poetry.
Hal had three hours of uninterrupted bliss. The paint flowed: colors were perfect, blues bled into reds to form an almost magical hue. A mysterious alchemy was developed. But why am I still sad? It’s on its way back. The grip has tightened.
Kato Bell, Hal’s neighbor and painter friend, recommended a doctor: Lars Nichols. On the first visit, he prescribed Zoloft. Guaranteed that Hal’s creativity wouldn’t be altered. Hell, he said, it may even be heightened. The nausea makes me paint faster. I’m not second guessing. Everything is better.
Two weeks later, Kato found Hal lying on his back. The coffee mug was broken, pieces scattered on a partially finished canvas next to Hal’s head. It reminded Kato of Julian Schnabel’s broken plate paintings. He mused… This could’ve been me. I’m not better than him, just lucky.
Two days later in the hospital, Kato stood next to Hal’s bed. Hal was fully conscious. The collapse and ambulance ride were just fragments of memory. Maybe he’ll use it for his next picture. How long do I have left before this happens again? What are the odds of success?
Mara, an ex-girlfriend, stopped by Hal’s studio. He’d been out of the hospital for a month and was working regularly. The Zoloft prescription was in the trash. Mara had made tamales from scratch. They drank white wine to cool the spices. She liked his work. Hal’s spirits were lifted. It’s going well. The show will sell out. I’ll have a career.
That night in bed, Hal couldn’t sleep. He was filled with good energy, excitement about the future. Finally, he drifted off, and woke around 3 a.m. Today was a lie. You’re a fraud. Everything will fail. Why don’t you just quit?
Hal decided to fight back. He turned on a light, picked up his sketchpad and pencil, started a new drawing. He said out loud, “Yeah, but I’m a fucking genius.”
