Red like blood, black like soot, colours mixing on the canvas to create a new masterpiece. His newest meditation on violence under capitalism in red oil and black ink:
A human body lying in a pool of blood, bound by thorny vines emerging from the blood. Some of the vines turn into cables connected to a machine embedded in the open chest of the human body. Technology as human nature, but perverted by the modern world. Binding us, enslaving us to the machinery, instead of freeing the human mind.
Sam took a step back, looked at the canvas, and took a deep satisfied breath. It was one of his better paintings. He could still smell the fumes of the oil paints. He loved that smell. It always made him a little high. No real high though, not like the kind of high he got from the various drugs he liked to use. He was not an addict, at least not like the broken souls you see in sleazy Hollywood productions. But when he was not painting, he liked to explore the borders of the human mind. He and his friends dancing through the night, in the seedy underbelly of the city, fuelled by whatever chemical concoction was available to them. And the smells from his paints always reminded him of sweaty nights and cold mornings, taking him back to the moments when he felt most human. And this morning the smells were especially strong; they made stars explode in front of his eyes. Suddenly Sam felt dizzy, his stomach was turning, and he had to throw up. He tried desperately to hold it in, hand in front of his mouth, surprised by his sudden need to hurl. But it was too late. Like an explosion, he sprayed his insides over everything, the canvas, the floor, his paint supplies, and himself. For a painful minute, he felt the contents of his stomach leaving his body, until he felt only emptiness and pain. After a moment, he looked at the mess he made. What he saw was not what he expected. He expected maybe a sickly green mess, but instead, it was all red with black crumps, not too far off from the colours he used for his paintings. Before his mind could register that this was not normal, his world turned to black.
His consciousness returned to him with the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. Even before he opened his eyes, he smelled disinfectant mixed with sickness. Like someone sprayed citrus and lavender over a pile of faeces. He subconsciously knew he was in a hospital before he had any clear thoughts. The time before he was truly awake were these twilight minutes, nothing he would remember later. Time that never really happened, not for him anyway. And with nobody else in the room, nobody there to bear witness, it was just time lost to the universe while he was on the verge of consciousness. Then, slowly, the clock started ticking again, the hands of time grasping for reality.
And reality came back with a shitload of pain. His guts felt like they got manhandled by some nasty gimp in some backwater snuff film. Sam felt sore and disoriented. The last thing he remembered was him, standing in his atelier. He had to know what had happened to him, and there was a red cord over his bed holding all the answers. He just needed to pull it, and a person would come and explain everything. Sam knew it was probably not good news, but he needed answers. Even when he literally felt in his guts that these answers would destroy his world. People say ignorance is bliss, but there was nothing blissful about this, therefore no further reason to delay the inevitable. He pulled the cord and the whole machinery of the medical world sprung alive, nurses and doctors came into the room and explained the situation, offered to answer all questions Sam might have. But Sam had no questions. The initial explanation was enough: cancer.
After that, nothing else really mattered. The doctor rambled on about options and therapies, but Sam wasn’t listening any more. His darkest thoughts had become reality. He was feeling sick for a while now. Some kind of darkness lingering in the corners of his consciousness, probing his defences, waiting for the right time to strike. And now the war on his body has begun. A war he will inevitably lose. Over the next few days, his doctors provided some ammunition in the form of meds and a scheduled appointment for chemotherapy.
After he got home the mess he made was already cleaned up. Bloody remains became just a memory; only the canvas with his latest painting remained in the corner. He cleaned up most of the blood and vomit from the painting, but there were still stains mixed in with the red and black. In this condition he couldn’t sell the piece, but he could also not bring himself to throw it away. There was something about his painting, it was maybe his best work yet. Obviously, he tried to recreate it. He made three attempts, but no creation came close to the original. They all looked almost the same but lacked something, something visceral, something that reminded him of bitter days in his life. All his recreations were lifeless in comparison.
At one point his sister came visiting, checking in, just to see if he needed something, if he was still alive. When she saw the painting, her reaction was even stronger. She described the feeling as pure despair, a shadow falling over her heart. She looked visibly distressed and had to leave the room after a short while. He showed her the recreations, but her reaction wasn’t remotely comparable. Something was different about the original painting, but he didn’t know what it was.
That was a lie. He knew what it was, but he didn’t know why it made a difference. It was like magic, but his blood made the original more primal, and gave it life beyond visual expression. He questioned his sanity. He didn’t believe in magic, not really. But there was no other explanation. At least no scientific one, no sane one. It was something beyond normal experience. It was magic, simple and fantastical. No other explanation made sense. But how could he recreate it? How could he conjure his magic? He had to test it.
He bought a syringe and took some of his blood, then mixed it with the red oil paints. Then he created two new identical paintings, one with his usual paints and one with the paints he created. He painted his cat, hunched on all fours in a fearful pose: the ears up high, the whiskers flat against the face, and the fur erect to all sides. Both paintings looked the same. But one made the observer uneasy, and invoked some kind of paranoia, while the other was a simple painting of a frightened cat. He recognized the difference but was somewhat immune to the influence. But every other person he showed the magical painting to had a visible reaction, real fear in their eyes, and all the cold sweat that comes with it.
His blood was magic, that much was obvious. But why? Was it always magic? Was it the sickness, lingering inside his blood? Maybe the corruption growing inside of him somehow drained the life from him and distilled it inside his blood. That was Sam’s theory anyway. There was no reason for it, nothing science could explain. It just seemed to amplify the feeling Sam wanted to express.
He wanted to test it further. He made a series of paintings, each one no bigger than a playing card, and every painting depicting another emotion. He made a joyful painting, a sad painting and one that evokes anger. He wanted to see if he could convey every emotion. On his next night out with his friends he planned to test his paintings.
They had a fun night out; everybody was wasted, the music was good and the company was better. Sam´s sickness cast only a small shadow over the nightly activities. His friends wanted to indulge Sam for the night, distract him from the death inside him with a celebration of life. But after a night of debauchery, everybody was primed and ready to witness something extraordinary.
Sam was excited to test his magic and invited everybody back to his place. He told them he had something special for the after-party. Something he wanted to show them. His friends expected some special drugs that were not usually on the menu. But real magic, probably no one had that on their bingo card. They were sitting around his coffee table, listening to music, joking around and enjoying themselves. That was when he told them he could make them all sad instantly, then angry, then happy again. And he told them he could do all that without drugs and without even saying anything.
He put the first painting face down on the table. It was the sad painting. He dared his friends to look at it. First, there was an awkward silence. His friends thought he wanted to make a crude joke, but Susanne was the first to humour him and took a careful glance. She was always the one in their friend group who cared for the others, making sure everybody was safe and had a good time. She stared at the painting, just for a moment, and then started crying. Everybody thought it was just a bit, something they planned together to entertain everyone. Nobody was quite sure why this should be entertaining. But one after the other looked at the painting in disbelief and was surprised by the magic of it. Immediately their hearts were struck with a deep and profound sadness. A few minutes later they were all crying, and nobody quite understood why. He put the next painting on the table, and told them this one would made them angry. Still in tears, his friends were more open to the idea his paintings affected them, but they were not convinced yet. It was just too fantastical, the idea of magic.
This time, Bernard was the first to look. He took it from the table as if he were in a poker game, but he could not keep the appropriate poker face. Instantly blood rushed to his cheeks, his breath became more rapid, and his muscles tensed like cables on a crane. And while everybody else was still weeping, Bernard was ready for a fight, ready to throw down with anybody who annoyed him. And in this moment, everybody annoyed him. Sam´s other friends didn’t want to be sad anymore and were curious after seeing the reaction from Bernard. But Bernard didn’t give up the painting, clutching it in his hand, risking a look every few seconds. And he was ready to fight for the right to keep looking.
Anger is an interesting emotion. We see it as negative, but it is one of the hardest to let go. We revel in it, when we think we are wronged in any way, like a pig wallowing in mud. Nobody wants to be sad or grieving. Nobody wants to be afraid, cowering before life. But anger, some people are motivated by it. Anger fuels them like gasoline. Their whole identity revolves around being angry and hateful, and in this moment, Bernard was one of them. Before things escalated further, Sam showed Bernard his last painting. Showing him the happy painting changed Bernard’s mood instantly: from a raging wild dog to a cute little puppy in seconds. Seeing the magic in full effect was stunning for Sam and his friends. As the whole situation played out, everyone stopped looking at the first painting, and after a short while their sadness subsided. Afterwards, they played with it, one after the other. Sadness, Anger, Happiness, going through the emotions one by one, letting one swell inside, like a wave crushing on the shore, then changing it with every new wave. It became the game of the night.
Of course, Sam´s friends wanted to know how he did it. His answer was a simple “Magic!”, followed by a sly grin. Not enough for his friends. They drilled him for more, but there wasn’t much more to it. He told them that he mixed a bit of his blood with his paint, and with that, he could conjure any emotion he desired. For the rest of the after party they had wild discussions about what was going on, and what Sam should do with his new ability. Everybody had theories, one wilder than the next. Sam didn’t really care about them. He had no interest in the “why”. It was magic, there was no explanation, no rational one anyway. And a plan had already taken shape in his head. He knew what he wanted to do with his gift.
He did learn a few new things about his magic. Not only could he apparently evoke every human emotion, there was also a correlation between the amount of blood he spent for the painting and the length of the effect. His earlier painting of his frightened cat influenced people for maybe an hour. The effect from the playing card paintings subsided after a few minutes.
Was it that easy? The bigger the painting, the longer lingered the effect. This was how it worked, and that was enough for Sam.
The after-party ended and all his friends went home. And after an evening fuelled by drugs and magic, everybody needed some time to recuperate, especially Sam. The scythe of the reaper lingered still in the corners of his mind, and time was running out. He had decided not to fight his cancer. He didn’t want to taint his magic with poisoned chemicals and radioactive rays from some machine. And to be brutally honest, he was afraid to fight his sickness. Cancer was one of these cases where the cure was infinitely more terrible than the sickness itself. And he didn’t feel strong enough to fight it. Scheduled appointments for his treatment went by without him attending. He got a call from the doctor´s office, but a half-hearted apology paired with the promise of rescheduling soothed the Lady on the telephone. And nobody else really cared enough to check whether he was taking his meds and getting his radiotherapy session. His sister asked him from time to time, but she trusted him enough to not question his response.
His plan was not to fight the cancer, but to use it. He still thought it was the source of his magic. It didn’t matter if this was true or just some wild fantasy, the outcome was the same. His blood was magic, and he planned to paint a legacy with it. He knew that his life was ending, sooner rather than later. He planned for one last painting. His true masterwork. He built a canvas like the old masters did. Four by five meters, like Rembrandt used for the original “The Night Watch”, before it was cut to fit the gap between the two doors it was intended for.
He hoped that nobody would cut his work into pieces just to fit some gap. His magic was simple. The larger the painting, the longer the effect. And he wanted to leave something behind that influenced people for as long as possible. His last painting should be a message of hope. Something to motivate people to do better, be better, in the face of a dying world.
He painted the majority of his painting with his normal colours, red like blood and black like soot. Nothing changed there. He painted a human body in black ink, arms open to embrace the observer and the legs not ending in feet but in roots like a tree. All the veins and blood vessels on the body were painted in deep red. The chest was open like in his other painting, but there was no cold machinery. There was a red and healthy heart, as it should be, and on the heart, there was a map of the world, in all its majesty. All the veins came together at the heart, building a perfect map of the circulatory system of the human body, and reaching into the roots on the bottom of the painting.
He wanted to impress on the observer that they should keep the needs and wants of the world in their hearts. That humanity should embrace the whole world, and go with the flow of the lifeblood of nature. Because we are just a part of an intricate system, and even if we think we mastered it, it is just an illusion. We are bound to nature and will never transcend it. Nature and us. Us and nature. It is symbiosis, not mastery.
It truly was his best work, only two colours but so much detail. The painting alone was enough to stun people in awe. The sheer immensity was astonishing. But with his magic, it would be a piece of art to change the world.
For the next part, he had to build something new. He had to build a machine to extract his blood, mix it directly with his oil paints, and channel it into a newly bought airbrush. All in all it cost him a few thousand dollars and three weeks of research to build the thing.
His blood mixed with the oil paints turned the red a few shades darker. The perfect colour to give the red parts some shadow and depth, enough to conjure the magic.
He knew that the act of finishing his painting would probably be the last thing he would do on this earth. The immense size of his painting would consume most of his blood, enough to kill him, he was quite sure about it. But Sam was fine with it. His days were numbered anyway, and with this he could leave something behind. He always wanted to move people, and inspire them, it was the reason why he chose to be an artist in the first place. And he was ready to sacrifice everything for his art.
Before his final act, he enjoyed one last good day. In the morning he visited his sister for a last breakfast together. Afterwards, Sam took the time to walk through his city, and he went to his favourite art museum, looking at the old masters one last time. In the evening he meet up with some of his friends for a last get-together, nothing wild, just some music and conversation. All throughout the day he felt the sickness in his body. Everything was exhausting, and he had to cover up his pain with a smile. But it was beautiful, too. To experience everything for the last time, spending a day with his friends and family, saying all the old jokes for one last time, and remembering moments when everything was simpler. A good last day. He went to sleep that night at peace with himself, knowing that tomorrow was his last day.
Tomorrow came with a burst of energy and resolve. He was ready to finish his work and put the final brushstrokes on his painting, and his life. But first, he wrote a letter for his sister. She would find him the next day, and she needed instructions on what to do with him and with the painting. He had sorted out all necessary legal matters days ago. The painting, like all his other possessions, would become her property, and she would decide how to use it. But in this letter, he wanted to say goodbye. He wanted to explain what he did and why he did it, and he wanted to say sorry. And he wanted to make a suggestion on how to use his painting. ‘It should be in a place where people who change the world can see it’, he wrote.
Sam´s sister always had a way to make the impossible happen. She knew a lot of people in high places, and she was the reason he was successful as an artist in the first place. Sam knew if somebody could bring his art and the right audience together, it would be her.
He finished his letter and put it on a table in front of the door to his atelier. With that out of the way, Sam could start his work. But first, he had to put on his self-made contraption. It consisted of a blood pump, and a small compressor, both fitted into a bag he could wear around his waist, a small hose leading to his airbrush, and one connected with a big needle he had to stick in his vein. He wanted to have his hands free, and after some research, he decided to use the femoral vein in his upper leg. Sticking a needle into one´s own thigh is no easy feat. Sam only succeeded on the fourth try. But a little bit of pain was a small price to pay for his work. And Sam was prepared to pay the ultimate price.
Sam climbed on a step letter and began to paint. With every press of the button, the pump sprang to life with a purr, like a cat resting in the afternoon sun, sucking his blood into the machine and mixing it with the pigment.
And with another press on the button of his airbrush pistol, the mixed paint was delivered to the canvas. With every press of the button he took a little bit of life from himself and poured it on the painting. Starting with the heart at the centre, he painted the shades of the ventricles. Then he proceeded to detail the veins from the centre going outward. He started getting dizzy after finishing the aorta and the arteries of the right arm. He had to be careful not to lose consciousness while on the ladder. It would be a shame if he fell and destroyed his painting in the process. But there was still so much to do, the whole left arm and both legs. He estimated that he had already used one litre of his blood, maybe more. If he took another, he would surely feint. But there was no stopping now. Sam was determined to finish his painting and paying the price. He finished the left arm quickly and stepped down from the ladder. He used the break to take a step back and look at his painting.
Taking in the whole painting filled him with a sense of peace he never experienced before. He felt connected to the fabric of the universe. Even though this day was his last, he knew his energy would never be lost. His sense of self would maybe dissolve, but his legacy would be lasting. The mark he made today would influence others, a small piece in a chain of events that started with his birth and would go on till the end of the universe. There was no fear of death, not any more. The only fear he had was that he would not finish before his body gave out. Looking at his painting and the purpose he felt working on it hardened his resolve. Another press of the button, another purr. Time to finish it.
First, he painted the left leg, then the right, culminating in the extensive root system he had painted on the bottom. By this point he was almost in a dream state, running on fumes, literally and figuratively. But that never stopped him before, and it wouldn’t stop him now. After his last brushstroke, he took one last look at his work. The calmness that washed over him was indescribable. He knew it was the end of his way, at least in this form, and he ended it fulfilling his purpose. He grabbed a thin brush from the stand. One last act in this life, his signature, testament of his contribution. After that, he died, at peace with the universe.
A little more than one year later Sam´s older sister was giving the keynote speech at the congress centre at Davos in Switzerland, home of the World Economics Forum annual meeting. Some of the most influential people of the world sat in the audience and listened to her speak about her brother, a simple artist who died last year and was using his last days on earth to leave something behind, something that would inspire people. And she was happy to announce that the last work of her brother would hang in the foyer of the congress centre, and would inspire not just this year’s attendees, but hopefully future generations as well. Sam was maybe the one who left a legacy, but she was always the one in the family that got shit done.
When she revealed the painting, a whisper went through the crowd, followed by a devout silence. Sam´s magic was working its way into their hearts, some kind of divine intervention influencing the movers and shakers of the world. A hundred years later, after things really took a turn for the better, nobody remembered that all it took was one little piece of art.
Thomas Castle 