The Artist

Psyche meets an artist

The meadow seemed to go on forever. Psyche trudged along through the tall, untamed grasses and wildflowers, feeling her legs tire increasingly with every step. But she had spotted a figure in the distance, no more than a speck moving through the fields, unmistakably human from how the stranger meandered through the wild terrain just as she did. The figure now appeared still, so Psyche knew she would soon meet with the mysterious wanderer. Perhaps they knew the way, or perhaps they were just as lost as herself. She sought to find out.

Vultures circled the sky. They cried out to each other as more joined their macabre dance, starkly contrasting the quiet beauty of the field of pastel-colored wildflowers swaying lightly in the steady breeze and the fluffy white clouds scattered across a perfect blue sky. The vultures followed Psyche overhead as she came closer to the unknown individual, and a chill shook her bones despite the warmth of the summer sun. 

Doing her best to ignore the vultures, Psyche finally got close to the person she had spotted from afar. He was a relatively young man, perhaps in his twenties, with a full, unkempt beard and long brown hair tied back in a scraggly ponytail. His clothes were all brown, with the only color he wore being an abundance of paint splatters in all the hues of the rainbow that adorned his plain attire. He sat alone on a tree trunk facing an easel that boasted a painting of the meadow. It was a work-in-progress, but Psyche could tell from just the accuracy of the vivid sky, sun-kissed grass, and mellow flowers that this painting could capture the scene so perfectly that it would seem to become part of the meadow itself. 

But to Psyche’s astonishment, the man was erasing everything. Somehow, the large, white eraser he wielded effaced the paint without leaving a single mark on the canvas, which Psyche could have never thought possible. The whole time, the man happily chanted, “I’m an artist! I’m an artist! I’m an artist!” with a ridiculous, exaggerated smile. 

Psyche’s jaw dropped at the artist’s cheerful manner juxtaposed with the destruction of his work. A work that now will never be seen by anyone—not even the artist himself could know what could have been. 

The man kept proudly repeating that he was an artist, ever so merrily. Dozens of vultures now clouded the sky. One landed on the artist’s shoulder. His face quickly darkened—he now appeared a different man altogether. “I’m an artist,” he said once more, quietly this time and as somber as one would be at a funeral. 

He erased the last stroke off the canvas. The vulture perched on his shoulder began tearing the canvas apart as more swooped down to help finish the job. The artist stared indifferently at the carnage, watching as the vultures doomed his work to the graveyard of abandoned projects, of art that could have perhaps been masterpieces, at least to someone. After the canvas, the vultures decimated the easel. When that was completed, a single vulture pecked the artist’s finger. The artist still sat like a statue, miserably gazing at the spot where his painting once was, showing no signs of pain and not even glancing at the blood that dripped from his hands as more vultures attacked, the blood seeping into his pants and obscuring all the other colors with deep crimson. 

Psyche felt herself floating away, unable to bear witness to the artist being eaten alive. But perhaps he had already been long dead. 

After all, what living soul would declare themselves an artist but never create anything, only destroy and let others pick them apart to the point that there’s nothing left?