Destructive Creativity

JumpJump

Hey, this is part of something bigger I'm writing. I'm only putting the first few parts of it on here. Tell me what you think. Criticism wanted. Thanks

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Destructive Creativity

1

Adam flung another piece of ink onto the board. At this stage he didn’t care anymore. “$hit,” he muttered, “Total $hit. What the f uck is that? Nothing. It’s total $hit.” He stood up, picked up the canvas, squinted at it, and threw it onto the pile in the corner. In the pile sat between one hundred and fifty to two hundred pieces of rejected craftwork: sculpture, paintings, ceramics, sketches, textiles, cloths, Mexican wrestling masks forged out of clay. All there in the corner, ashamed and embarrassed. Adam walked over to his pile, sighed, and kicked it. An avalanche of material rolled from the summit to the base of Adam’s $hit-work pyramid. “Nothing.” he said, collapsing into the nearest chair.

Alan had reached his physical limit. For the past two months he had embarked on a wondrous quest to expel an energy he felt within himself. A creative urge. He’d always felt the need to produce, but never quite knew exactly what he needed to produce. Only recently had he decided to humour his compulsion and attempt to channel this energy into some form of craft. There was one great, glaring conundrum, however: Adam was a talentless man. This much he had learned. This knowledge did not satisfy him. He was determined to discover his chosen art, his niche, the one thing on this planet that he may feel even slightly comfortable with. He tried everything, and every time the result was the same: a shambolic excuse for human effort, a hair on the nipple of terrible artwork, and often hilarious. Adam seldom laughed.

Yet still his hunger grew. He felt an instinctive, almost primitive need to vent whatever it was that wanted to get out.

Adam stood up again, slowly, like a man summoned for execution. He lurked towards the pile, shoulders hunched, feet dragging. He looked like a mental patient. The pile seemed to taunt Adam. Every meaningless doodle, every uninspired horse portrait, screaming: “TALENTLESS! WORTHLESS!” in unison in his corner. Across the dimly lit room lay scattered an army of eclectic inspiration: Monets, Rembrandts, Warhols, Da Vincis, Picassos. Adam scanned them slowly. They seemed disgusted, abused, and superior. He turned back to his pile. He began to feel anger now. True anger. His anger, he felt, needed direction.

Adam picked up a small A5 canvas on the summit of his pile. He looked at it. It was a crude rendering of…a dog, he thought, or a horse…perhaps even a camel, he couldn’t recall. His rage grew. He held the mongrel camel horse level with his sweating forehead. Screaming a high pitched scream, with two hands he propelled the board through his head. It cracked in two places and fell to the floor. The sudden, snapping sound gave Adam a brief tingling sensation. It felt good. It felt…almost productive. Adam grabbed a painted plate and looked at it for a moment. He hesitated, then smashed it over his head. The plate splintered all over his $hit-brown living room carpet. The noise was even better. Adam felt satisfaction. He began grabbing random, innocent pieces and killing them. He ripped, punched, kicked, shattered and cracked. He destroyed. He grew increasingly maniacal, hurtling great masses of dried clay across his small apartment, screaming and spitting like a rabid wolf.

He stopped. Panting, shoulders bouncing, he surveyed the damage. He caught a glimpse of Mona Lisa, surveying him from the couch. “What the f uck are you looking at?” he asked. He stormed over to the reproduction - which had cost him €650 the week before - and punched a fist through her mysterious smile. He felt a sudden rush of relief. It was wonderful. It was release. Finally, the feeling he had craved all these years, that was it. He took a nearby Picasso, laughed a genuine laugh and cracked it over his knee. Again, paroxysms of pleasure and satisfaction. Freedom. A weak echo of sanity told Adam he should stop. He shook it off, and began working his way through his art collection, destroying them one at a time.


2

Adam looked at his watch. Half twelve. Traffic flowed, oblivious, up and down Nassau Street. Taxis mostly. The sun was out, but wasn’t doing anything. A cold wind kept its victims aware this was not time to be enjoying any sort of decent weather. People walked brisk with purpose, destinations and plans. Everything important. Life surrounded and ignored Adam. Adam waited. He checked his watch again, twelve-forty. Scott was late.

JumpJump

Scott was a young, handsome man with the brain of a small fish. Adam wished he was Scott. Scott had everything he needed, but was too stupid and complacent to know or care. Adam knew and Adam cared. He didn’t hold any sort of malice towards Scott, however. Scott was too gentle and ignorant to hold any sort of grudge against. He was also funny, for all the wrong reasons. Scott was Adam’s best friend. Scott did not know this, either.

Scott arrived from the shade off of Merrion Square. He strolled with the vibrant enthusiasm of an infant, taking everything in. He had his hands in his pockets, and was looking around, up and down at the nearby architecture like somebody who’d never seen a man made structure before. Scott lived around the corner. Adam looked at his watch for show, then back at Scott. “What?” Scott said. Adam noticed he was wearing a suit.
“Why are you wearing a suit?”
“Why not? It’s the museum isn’t it…don’t you have to wear a suit?”
“No, you don’t have to wear a suit…it’s not the f ucking Gala opening. We’re not visiting any senior members of the government, Scott.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Come on.”

Scott followed his friend through the glass doors of the National Gallery, walked through the reception and into an exhibition area. “So what’s the story?” he asked “Why we here? More inspiration?”
“No. Not really.”
“Then what?” Scott scratched the inside of his nose with his thumb and looked at the tourists looking at the paintings. He put his nose scratching hand back into its pocket.
“Scott, I found what it is I’m good at.” Adam said, gazing at the nearby paintings.
“Yeah?” Scott’s eyebrows shot up, stayed up. He stared at Adam. “Serious? What is it?”
“Destroying artwork.” Adam said. He held a fist to his mouth and coughed. He stared at a large portrait of a gaunt figure, tilted his head, and frowned. The great room echoed with the cautious, polite taps of visitors’ feet on the beige hardwood. There was a cleanliness to the place. That sanitary atmosphere of an asylum cafeteria that can be found in places that demand respect and reverence. Everyone was afraid to touch anything.

Adam finished looking at the painting and turned to Scott, who was still staring at him, eyebrows elevated. Scott never really understood Adam. He thought him a bit mad. Always concerned with something. Never stopping his constant analysis of life and happiness to actually live and be happy. He humoured him, though, because he thought perhaps John might be some sort of genius. A misunderstood prodigy, whose greatness would only be fully realised at a later, distant stage. He enjoyed knowing someone like this. He thought it might come in handy one day. “What?” Scott said.
“Destroying artwork,” Adam repeated, walking to the next painting “I don’t know. I just did it, and it felt good. It felt right. Like what I needed.”
“Adam, what the hell are you on about?” his eyebrows were still up there.
“That energy, you know? That creative energy. I feel it being released, when I destroy art.”
“Destroy art.” Scott echoed.
“Yes. The better the art the better the release.”
“Ah here.” Scott’s bemusement was now a frown.
“No, seriously Scott. I’m dead serious. I mean it,” he gave Scott a small forward jerk of his head to show he meant it, “Really.”

Adam strolled up the long gallery aisle, scanning all the paintings he looked at with an analytical squint that disturbed Scott. Scott followed, frowning. “So, look,” he said “whatever about that ****e, ok? Why are we here? Why are we in the National f ucking Gallery Adam?” Scott was an old fashioned, cartoonish style of thick. His stupidity, even after all these years, still sometimes surprised Adam. “Why do you think Scott?” Adam said.
“I could guess.”
“Guess.”
“I don’t think I want to guess.”

Adam laughed half heartedly, still occupied with the paintings. He stood before a particular large one for a moment and studied it. It was biblical, most of them were. It showed Jesus being taken by soldiers, barely visible amongst the shadows that smothered their bulky armour. He nodded. He seemed to recognize something about it.

“See this?” Adam said. Scott was looking at the walls, he noticed small devices every few feet across the room. He assumed they were advanced security systems designed by robotic geniuses from the future. He turned to look at the great rectangle. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, what about it.”
“Do you know what that is, Scott?” Scott had already lost interest in the masterpiece. He was staring at a nearby security guard. The man was built like a prize winning elephant wrestler. His suit struggled to contain the gladiator’s body. He stood, feet apart, hands clasped at the crotch, looking like he’d just killed his grandparents. He looked at Scott. Scott darted his head back towards Adam. “What?” he said.
“See this?” Adam said, “Do you know what this is?”
“It’s a painting.”
“It’s not just a painting, Scott.” Adam looked his nervous friend in the eye, leaned towards him and gave him an eerie moment’s silence. “This…this is the Carravagio. Famous worldwide. Priceless. A bonafide ****in’ masterpiece, Scott.”
“Oh” Scott glanced at the painting again. He thought Jesus’s head looked a bit too big.
“Yep.” Adam said, letting his wisdom sink in.
“So?” Scott said. He noticed a young girl cruising around the opposite side of the room, taking her time. Understanding the art, or looking like it. Good body. Scott remembered something important was happening, or about to happen. He returned his gaze to Adam.
“So, Scott,” Adam was face to face with Scott now, his friend catching pellets of saliva with every consanant “The only way to get rid of this urge I have…this thing that’s been at me all these years. Is to destroy..” He gave Scott an expression that looked like a teacher waiting for a correct answer.
“To destroy..” Scott droned.
“A…”
“A..”
“Bonafide..”
“Bonafide..”
“Master…”
“..piece.”

Adam smiled. Scott didn’t.

“F uck off.” Scott said. He turned towards the aisle they’d entered from and started to walk away. Adam grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him back around. The security guard shuffled. Adam got close to Scott again. “Look,” he said “how long have we been friends Scott?”
Scott paused. “F uck off.” he repeated.

A brief silence, and then it happened.


3

It took a moment. Then, with the cautious wonder of a quiet newborn, Scott came too. “What the f uck?” he muttered. There were shards of various coloured material scattered around his feet and legs. He noticed he was lying down, with a young woman standing above him, arms crossed. Good Body.

“What the f uck?” he repeated, this time louder. He sat up slowly and tried to recognize where he was. They were the only two people in the room, which was relatively small. It didn’t look like a museum. He examined it quickly and returned his eyes to the girl, glaring at him like a pissed off deity. She had a soft face with hard eyes, which were filled with something strong. Disgust maybe, or something else. “Hello.” he said. The word came out with the inappropriateness of a tuxedo at a Texan rodeo, and floated in the air for a moment, ridiculous. She shook her head. She wouldn’t accept this hello, not now. “What happened?” he asked. The girl gave a sudden look of disbelief. She looked like his words had just smacked her in the face. It was then that Scott noticed the darkness.

The entire room was soot black, top to bottom, with very little light. A bulb swayed somewhere from the ceiling. It gave no light, just a glimmer of reflection now and then. There was a smothering air to the room, the smell of something cooked. Scott was gripped with a sudden rush of anxiety. Something big had just happened, and he couldn’t remember a thing. “What is wrong with you?” the girl asked. Her voice shook with emotion. Scott didn’t know how to approach the question: a brief summary, or in list form?

A pause. “What?” he said. The girl just stood, shook and looked like somebody on the verge of lunacy.

Outcast

I love the first part, really powerful stuff! I think as it goes on you lose the really intense raw energy you had in the first part though it's still really good stuff!

JumpJump

I kind of prefer it the more it goes on, I don't know why. Cheers for the feedback, I'd appreciate any more anyone could give

shiv

At first I wasn't that into it, but you won me over
I like your writing style. It's sharp and biting, and very funny in places.
Some interesting metaphors too.

What happens next???
(if that isn't a measure of success, I don't know what is..

p.s. Who's John?

JumpJump

p.s. Who's John?

Oh, hahaha, that's a typo, it's meant to say 'Adam'. I changed the name of that character, must have missed that one 'John', cheers.

Thanks for the comment, I'm glad you're interested in what happens, that always helps.

The Raspberrier

I liked it. It gets better as it goes along. You use a good few funny images, especially the "Tuxedo at a Rodeo".:D Part three was a bit confusing though. What exactly happened? Or do you just want to keep us in suspense?:D

JumpJump

Like I said, this is only the beginning of something longer. I won't be posting the rest though I'm afraid, but it's good to see people are interested

Silent Grape

i like the writing style, but maybe more research into what an artist actually does?

you seemed to pick VERY stereotypical things , like assuming that artists are impulsive, overemotional, fiery people that freak out if something doesnt work, and would only have traditional paintings like the mona ****ing lisa on their walls, and would visit the national gallery instead of IMMA to see art.

nuts


but good writing i guess

the little one

damon kind rules

JumpJump

you seemed to pick VERY stereotypical things , like assuming that artists are impulsive, overemotional, fiery people that freak out if something doesnt work, and would only have traditional paintings like the mona ****ing lisa on their walls, and would visit the national gallery instead of IMMA to see art.

The guy in the story ISN'T an artist. He only WISHES he was, that's the whole point. But cheers anyway.

Silent Grape

ah okay. i read it like he was having a painters block or something.

Matt Holck

maybe I'm not an artist
but as he has put enough effort in to creating all his crap
reminds me of writers block
like 10% of what I produce is good
so what
that's more than if I had done else wise
the story shifts focus to a more likable but stupid
although none of his actions convey adam's sentiment
I want a rational for the burning desire to destroy art
that's a hard motive to sypathize
although destroying is fun may be sad reality
adam is suposedly complex

JumpJump

He has no logical rationale for destroying the art. Only it gives him release and pleasure, so he does it. I never once said Adam was complex.

Matt Holck

I stand corrected