Ch. 6 Nymph for Art (2)
by AfuhfuihgsChapter 6 – Nymph for Art (2)
“This can’t be. Is this really…? No, it’s possible. It really is.”
I was experiencing a continuous stream of novelty.
I was feeling something new from the book.
For a brief moment, the book introduced me to a man named Humbert and another who called himself Vivian.
Of course, I rejected both of them, focusing solely on my art, and as a result, Humbert became imprinted in my mind and heart, living on within me.
*Ring~! Ring~!*
The phone rang.
“What the hell.”
It was noisy.
But my mind was already completely absorbed in the book.
The descriptions from the book filled my imagination so vividly that I couldn’t even hear the ringing. I began to write down my own interpretations, and finally, I picked up a brush to complete that world.
And I couldn’t help but be astonished.
“This is just… a painting filled with short-term, abstract elements, following mere descriptions. How can this be possible?”
Once again, I was captivated by the enchantment of the library, projecting the image of Lolita onto the girl in the library, the witch.
I seemed to desire her, the nymph.
I poured out my art.
No.
I excreted it.
No.
I spewed it out.
The unnamed witch, the librarian of the library, could be called a beautiful nymph, born from my singular, selfish, and instinctual emotions.
Her beautiful appearance, her seemingly nonexistent emotions, and the expressionless face that seemed to embody nothingness.
And the girl…
She was a perfect sculpture, flawless in every way, and she wouldn’t leave my mind. In the end, I painted her.
Like Humbert, I became him, chasing the witch, the girl, through my painting, seeking even a glimpse of true, beautiful art.
I emptied my thoughts from my head and poured them into my body, becoming like an acephalic (headless) being, unable to pursue thought.
It felt as if a tangled thread deep within my chest was slowly unraveling, and finally, a well-built leg was collapsing.
Even breathing was difficult, overwhelmed by excitement, and my trembling fingertips confessed that I could no longer contain my feelings for the artistic witch.
“Ah, this sensation, no. Yes, let it out. Pour out my desires, the restraint of my head is gone, and now only instinct remains.”
I spread dozens of different paints across a large canvas, smearing them in every direction, painting wildly, and using fruit to symbolize lips.
Before I joined the war, my paintings carried a soft, spring-like fragrance.
But now, what I faced was the harsh, biting scent of winter—cold, hungry, and painful—seeping into my nose and mouth, suffocating me.
A freezing sensation, as if everything around me was breaking into pieces, surged through my body. I couldn’t help but feel this was the witch’s way of warning me.
“Ah, no. No. No. No. No. No. Yes.”
As soon as the conclusion was reached, my long wooden stick and the brush at its tip stimulated my sexually excited hand, fingers, and fingerprints.
I couldn’t bear it, and to release all the heat from my body, I stripped off all my clothes, embracing complete liberation.
Tears streamed down, but they weren’t born from deep sorrow.
It was just that the liquid was too worthless to keep inside, so I poured it out through my tears.
The tears, unable to bear their weight, fell down my cheeks and finally dripped onto the wooden floor, leaving marks.
Strand by strand.
Each time I painted her hair, my heart beat slower or faster.
While painting her hair, my heart pounded as if it would burst, and as I finished the sharp lines of her hair, my heart slowed as if reaching its peak.
I repeated this sensation thousands, tens of thousands of times to express the witch’s hair.
The brief moments of silence in between only excited me more.
*I was destined to be like this. Why didn’t I realize this sooner!?*
No.
I shouldn’t ask such questions.
*Why didn’t I try this sooner! You fragile, weak coward!!!*
Even as I asked myself, I knew there was no answer, and it drove me mad.
No one was around, so no one could understand this artistic self-loathing within me.
And after 30 minutes of drowning in artistic self-loathing and pessimism, all surrounding noise faded away.
Here, there was only dust, small insects, mana fragments floating in the air, and artistic misanthropy that couldn’t understand my pain.
Closing my eyes, even in the darkness, the vivid disgust followed me.
The sensation in my body was just… terrible.
It felt as if bugs were crawling all over my soul, gnawing at its fragments, negating my very essence.
And from afar, the ‘disgusting’ me grabbed my shoulder, chuckling.
“Well, in the end, you just visited a library, right?”
The disgust chuckled as it placed a hand on the shoulder of self-loathing.
“No. I never dismissed it as just that.”
“Then what are you? You’re just a lump of flesh, a collection of tiny cells charging toward the future, a simple combination of mana fragments and atoms in the air.”
As disgust tried to define the soul, the soul rebelled.
“It’s my soul that’s in pain!!! The bugs! These damn bugs that are ‘me’ are eating me alive!”
The soul screamed at the disgust, but the disgust just laughed at the soul.
“Close your eyes. Then open them and tell me what you see.”
Following its words, the soul closed its eyes and then opened them.
“I see flashes and feel a sting, then I hear screams. Screams from my soul being eaten by bugs, by me.”
“Right. And those screams. They resonate with your soul every moment, shouting, screaming, singing about your destruction. What do you want to do about it?”
The soul answered briefly.
“I want it out of my head.”
“Even though it’s already been cut off?”
“It’s not cut off yet. It’s still here. Like this.”
As the soul pointed to its head, the disgust laughed brightly.
“Don’t worry. I’m also you, so I know what those things are.”
The soul opened its eyes in surprise and asked.
“Then why are the bugs here? Why did they come to me?”
“They crave something delicious. Listen to what they’ve consumed. They might know more than you. That’s what they’re trying to say.”
The expression of that moment, the cold wind of that day, the last voice I heard.
Everything was painfully clear.
The soul gave up trying to cover its ears or spit out the bugs and listened.
After deep thought, the soul forced an uncomfortable smile.
“It’s time to consume the bugs, not exterminate them. The cursed light of the plow itself. Now I know what I must do.”
“Good.”
Sadness arrived like that.
I regained my head, and a wave of tears poured down, light tears flowing freely.
I repeatedly screamed meaningless cries in the room, my breath ragged, swallowing sobs as I sat alone in front of the canvas, crying my heart out.
“Ah. Yes. This is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. This is it.”
I had gained enlightenment.
*****
[World Art Exhibition – Salon]
Even in a world consumed by war, art did not stop.
Especially the paintings born from the devastation, darkness, pessimism, and misanthropy of war could freeze people’s emotions.
And in particular, John Menard, that is, my painting, received tremendous acclaim.
“Th-this painting is…”
“Wow… it’s cold.”
“Youthful yet mature, dark yet brighter than anything. The characteristics of John Menard’s paintings are well blended with new attempts.”
“It gave me chills. I almost wet my pants.”
Critics praised John Menard’s painting as ‘a radical eroticism and modernism that, while lacking a moral, carries more of a lesson than anything else.’
“Is this the painting you made?”
And my friend Shuji came to the neutral country ‘Swin Republic,’ where the World Art Exhibition was being held, to see the painting.
Even in the midst of war, a permanently neutral country had no reason to join the war, making peace possible.
And Shuji, looking at the painting, scanned it with interest.
“The dress is emphasized with an extreme black, and on top of that, a beautiful yet dry expression that seems to say emotions are meaningless. She’s looking back but not fully turning, allowing the imagination to think she’s uninterested. A perfect painting. Stimulating yet primal, dark yet bright, cold yet warmer than anything.”
Like Yozo’s evaluation, my friend analyzed the painting almost perfectly, without missing a single detail, and I smiled in satisfaction.
“One thing is missing.”
“One thing?”
“Yes.”
But neither the critics nor my friend noticed the most important point of the painting.
“The unreachable.”
“The unreachable?”
“Yes. I’m chasing it… but it’s hard to catch. No, I can’t catch it. I don’t think I can.”
“Huh…”
At my lament, Shuji looked at me as if she couldn’t understand.
Then she looked back at the painting and fell into thought.
*What is the unreachable in that painting?*
Is it simply that the painting can’t be brought into reality, making it unreachable?
Or is it that, even though the painting has touched reality, it lacks emotion, making it unreachable in terms of feeling?
*Emotion? Unreachable?*
Then what is that emotion?
Anger? Sadness? Pain? Joy? Love?
“…Hey, by any chance, does this painting have a motif?”
Shuji made a guess, stating her opinion to me.
“What?”
I widened my eyes, my dry, swollen lips tightly pressed as I glared at Yozo.
There was no answer.
Only a small fire remained.
“Still, I can’t understand it. That kind of emotion that humans have.”
“No. You’re human too, so someday you’ll understand. This thing I have.”
“This painting? No. You say it’s unreachable, but you’re trying to monopolize it. Yeah, I’m a little curious. That ‘thing’ you hold with such love and hate.”
Shuji left, laughing at the brilliant works of art and geniuses, and at me.
“…Get lost. You’ll come back eventually anyway.”
I laughed at my friend and sank into memories of the library and the witch.
Remembering the soft, warm memories of that day, I wanted to paint again.
AlucardLovesFish
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