The Artist Who Saw His Life Without Art

Boom Shikha
Aug 23, 2017 · 9 min read
Photo by Ciprian Boiciuc on Unsplash

“I am sick of this lifestyle.” I said these words to myself at least twice a day, if not more. Sometimes, it was as regular a occurrence in my life as my feeding habits.

It was one of those things, you know. I loved being an artist, and creating all of these beautiful, but it was hard somedays. Those days, when I had nothing to eat in the fridge, and not enough money to buy any food. Those days, sometimes the same days, when I didn’t have enough to pay even for transportation, so I had to walk everywhere, even in the freezing cold. Those days, when I had to forego switching on the heat, because it was just way too expensive.

It wasn’t always like this. There were days of famine and days of abundance. Those months that I sold a painting was great. I would have enough money to buy food, and to pay for gas, and even, to pay for a taxi or two. But on those other months, when I didn’t sell anything for months on end, I was destitute, poor, and miserable.

I guess, I was losing faith. I was also losing gratitude for this world that I lived in. I wanted to be more grateful, but it was hard to be that when your stomach growled hungrily every single time you made a single comment. It was hard to be alive in a world, where artists weren’t really appreciated that much, or at all. Hard to be in a world where even my own parents thought I was wasting my time, being an artist of all things. They would have been happier if I was a cashier at Wal-mart earning minimum wage. At least, I would have been contributing to the economy that way.

One of these terribly cold days, I kept on hating everything, everyone, and all of what my life represented right now. I was angry, upset, and done. I complained, and grumbled almost the whole day.

When I fell asleep that night, my last thought was, “I hate being an artist.”

I woke up as usual in a grumpy mood, because I had been cold all night, and hadn’t really slept really well. I was scratching my belly, when I realized I wasn’t actually cold. It was warm in my apartment.

Oh shit! Did I forget to switch off the heat before I fell asleep? Oh god, the damn landlord would come after me, asking for the heating bills to be paid soon, and I would have nothing to give him, except my ill health.

I pondered over this, when I realized that not only was the heat on, but so was the music. I looked up to notice these speakers laying on a desk that I didn’t have the night before when I fell asleep. There was also a lot of other random stuff in my apartment that I didn’t have before.

Perhaps, I had… sleepwalked? And ended up in someone else’s apartment. But the apartment in general looked familiar. It had the similar layout, and feel to it. Except that it was warm, cozy, filled with stuff, and as I pulled open the fridge, it had food filled up to the wazoo.

What the hell?

I jumped back from the refrigerator at least five steps. Where did all of this food come from?

This is definitely not my apartment.

I need to get out of here, before someone finds out I’m in their apartment, I thought to myself. That’s when I noticed my potbelly. I had never ever had a potbelly in my entire life. It was one of the advantage of not only having a fast metabolism, but never having enough to eat. I never ever had enough to eat to even fill my belly. How did I manage to get a potbelly?

A phone rang through in the apartment. I didn’t think anything of it. This isn’t my apartment, so that isn’t my phone. I looked for my shoes, and jeans, they must be somewhere in the apartment, so I could make a quick getaway.

The phone stopped ringing, and I heard someone talking. This person had voicemail as well.

Wow… Luxury indeed.

The message went as such. “Josh, Josh…Josh! You there? I know you are there, you bastard. Pick up the phone. I need to speak to you urgently. You know that deal we were working on. The big one. It fell through, man. It just freaking fell through. I’m in a middle of a mild panic attack at the moment. Call. Me. Back. Right Now!”

He yelled out that last part. His voice seemed familiar. And my name was Josh…

I looked around and saw a vintage neon-orange phone sitting there on the wall. I picked up the receiver, and dialed in the number that he had yelled out. “I knew you were there, you bastard. What were you doing? Still in bed, I’m guessing? You are going to be such a fat old bastard. Anyways, that deal, with the Percussion group? It fell through. It means that we just lost potentially 2 million dollars, man. 2 million dollars. I had already spent my portion of the money, because of you. You were so damn sure that we had it in the bag. I already bought a damn car. I’m so upset right now.”

“Uh… who is this?”

“Josh, stop joking around. For God’s sake, this isn’t the right time, man. Okay, look here, I’m going to come around to your apartment right now, and then we are going to figure this out together, okay?”

Then, the man hung up, and I was left there standing and staring at the receiver.

I am Josh, I said to myself. I no longer work as an artist, as I don’t see any canvases or paints in the apartment. I have a potbelly and enough food to last me hundreds of years if need be. I work on deals that get me a chunk of 2 million dollars. I am so confused. I am still Josh. But I am not Josh, the artist.

I sat down with a loud thump onto the seat by the dining table, and wondered what the hell was going on.

I didn’t have much time to think. The man, whose name I was unsure of, tramped in, a few minutes later. He didn’t live far, I assumed.

He sat down on the couch, and started scratching himself under his armpits. He was as unfit as I was, or even more so. He had really bad acne for an adult his age. And he was self-conscious of his pot belly, which meant he wore really baggy shirts, that made it more obvious that he had one.

He spoke continuously for 45 minutes on what they would do in order to deal with the catastrophe. He kept on saying, “I have already bought the car, man. I can’t return it. Tannakhat has told me she is going to break up with me if I don’t have the car anymore. You know how much I enjoy having her going around with me everywhere. I can’t lose her, man. I just can’t.”

He left a few minutes after that, and I was left sitting in my fancy apartment, filled with lots of stuff and food. I pulled some stuff out of my fridge, and stuffed my face for the next few hours. There wasn’t a moment where I wasn’t shoveling something or the other into my mouth. It was as if I was afraid to be without food again.

I wondered what’s going on several times.

Did I travel into a different space/time dimension where I am not a starving artist? Where I have a real job?

Was I ever an artist in this life? I don’t know.

I spent a few minutes searching through the tiny apartment for any canvases, or paints at all. I had this insane desire to paint something, but there was nothing in the house, except food, and stuff. I must have some kind of food and shopping complex, I thought to myself.

I miss my artist life, I said to myself, inadvertently. The thought popped into my mind, without even thinking about it.

There was a whirlwind of emotions inside of me. I didn’t ever think I would miss not having food, being hungry and cold all the time, and never knowing where my next paycheque would come from.

All of the sugar I had consumed in the form of Boston cream donuts were doing a little hula dance in my belly, making me sleepy. I laid down on my bed with the satin sheets, and down-feather comforter, and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was afraid to open my eyes for a few seconds. I could feel that it was cold again. It was cold and I was hungry.

I squeezed my eyes open slowly and I saw that I was back in my barren apartment again, with nothing in it, except canvases, paints, and a lot of hope.

I didn’t have the potbelly anymore, but I did have a lot of hunger gnawing at my belly.

Was that a dream? Did I wake up in my dream to have that dream? A dream within a dream? Was that what it was?

It’s odd. I didn’t know how much I would have missed my artist life. I grumbled and bitched about it enough. I thought it would be one of those things. Once, I make all of that money, I always assumed I would stop painting, eat and shop a lot, but that dream showed me that I don’t think I would like that at all.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Josh, you got a delivery for you. An express letter. It looks like it’s from a gallery.” I jumped out of bed, unhindered by a pot belly, and ran to the door. My landlady handed me the parcel, and sniffed into my apartment. “It’s rather cold in here. How are you surviving?”

“I’m fine, Miss Donnelly. Thank you.”

I shut the door before she could ask me about food or water. She was the kindest, and sweetest woman alive, but I couldn’t bear it, if she started giving me money for food, or heat, when she barely had enough for herself.

I ran to my bed, and got under the covers. It really was way too cold in the apartment. I tore open the parcel. A box of chocolates fell out of it, and a letter.

The letter said what I wanted it to say. One of my paintings was sold for $8,000 USD. There was a cheque stapled to the letter, for that amount. I had never seen such a amount written out before.

But, I couldn’t really enjoy it. I sat back and pondered on the dream. Was this still part of the dream? I pinched myself as hard as I could. Not a dream. Did I really just make $8,000 USD?

I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I took the box of chocolates and gave it to the landlady downstairs. She would be able to give it to one of her grandchildren. She had a dozen of them.

I had thought when I would make such an amount of money, I would be so ecstatic, and it would absolutely change my life. But besides from being able to switch on the heat in my apartment, I don’t think I would change anything in my life right now. Perhaps, I would send some money to my parents — nah, they never believed in me anyways.

I sat down on a park bench in the bitter cold, wanting to feel the cold, wanting to realize that that dream had a message for me.

Money can corrupt, and I didn’t want to go down that path. I painted, and I was an artist, even though it was a hard life, because I needed to do it. I needed to be an artist. I needed it like I needed oxygen.

I would forever be an artist. The money doesn’t change anything.

I whistled my way home — it would be nice to sleep in a warm bed for once, I thought happily, as I held a plastic bag of BBQ pork as a sort of celebration for today.


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Boom Shikha

Written by

I am a writer, who writes because she needs to write, like she needs to breathe. For more writing, visit https://themillionairehippie.com/.

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