The Obsessed Artist
This story is about an artist.
It’s the story of how he gradually slipped into madness and self-destruction in the path to achieve perfection.
He was so obsessed with it, he led his life to a disaster.
If you are expecting a happy ending, then his story is not for you.
Obsession can be deadly, and obsession for perfection leads an artist to insanity.
He desired perfection. He longed for it. He wanted to make it his mistress. He wanted to call it at his will and play with it, he wanted to make the world go awe looking at how he made perfection his mistress. He wanted accolades, he wanted praise, he craved for recognition and most importantly he desired greatness.
He spent hours on end rehearsing. No chance was given to the audience to point a finger at his art.
He despised mediocrity. He despised anyone who was mediocre. After all it was his greatest fear, being a mediocre artist.
He had a wife, who was an unsuccessful writer. Everyday he saw the failure in her eyes. Everyday he saw the mediocrity in her work. He pushed her too far, until one day she snapped and screamed at him that art was meant to make you feel something beautiful not pushing people over the edge in the name of perfection or greatness.
Some people are just not ready for greatness. They can’t make the sacrifices. But I’m not. I’m willing to sacrifice everything.
He despised his wife. He hated her more and more, and with each passing day he was repulsed by her. He couldn’t look her in the eye, for he was afraid he would see his reflection in them. He became so afraid of becoming like his wife that he pushed her out of his life.
In the path to greatness, there’s no place for weakness. He wrote in his diary the night he left his wife.
In order to become great, I have to destroy my old self. I have to rebuild myself. See how far I can push myself, and then push some more.
This is a great formula for achieving greatness, but it’s for the balanced minds, but this man was not balanced. He was already descending into the realm of madness and the thoughts of achieving something great, something rewarding, just fastened his way into doom.
This was a man, who lost his family, his mind, his own sense of self to something that could never be achieved. He romanticized the idea of perfection so much that, when he couldn’t achieve it, he gradually — without his knowledge, turned insane.
I deliberately didn’t specify the art he was engrossed in, because this obsession applies to any sort of art, be it painting, writing, dancing, singing, acting. As an artist we have the responsibility to give something back to the world, make them feel a range of emotions.
All artists dream of perfection. Maybe we can’t achieve what we call Perfection, maybe we are not supposed to. After all that’s what makes art relative, the imperfections. People relate to imperfections, they find a small part of themselves in it.
Art is not supposed to be perfect, it is supposed to reflect.
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