trivial pursuits
When left to their own devices, things that turned to the art they were meant to be were perpetrators of fate. Even once their physical beauty had been exhausted by time, that, too, would be an act of fate. But should they create something irresponsible, something pointless, then they might have a chance of freedom.
Such was the creation of art. It was to be free from the binds of nature by creating something that only ever exists in the mind. Irresponsible, pointless. This was how meaning was created, driven by desire, by the willful assertion of expression.
And so Wallace moved his brush, a worn, expensive brush he had bought when he was sixteen. He had gone to art class once, but lost interest. He did not want to learn about the right curves that would turn the shape into an apple, nor the science of angles that would give the illusion of depth. He did not want imitation, nor the lies of an artist. He wanted nothing, really.
So as what would be expected of an amateur artist, his painting had all the splashes of colours and none of the honest reality before him. The lake that was pure and crystalline, surrounded by a backdrop of acorn trees, was, well, blue in his canvas. He had chopped of the trees, because Wallace found the sky more interesting to include. He liked the ray of light from two hours ago, so he struck down a diagonal of white right there. Wallace hummed as he added the narcissus near the water. Maybe he would draw a drowning man, too.
“Is there something you need?” he asked the presence watching him from behind.