Man Is Not Truly One, But Truly Two

What’s the measure of a man?

A cloud of cigarette smoke engulfs the painting before him. It’s a masterpiece, surely—the painting, not the smoke cloud. The lines? Perfect. The technique? Masterful yet subtly innovative. Never jarring, it’s a piece that can be admired by both laymen gawkers behind a velvet rope, and crusty professors hanging onto their thesis as it gets iterated to irrelevance.

The artist pulls another drag. It burns every cell in his lungs, dopamine now for an early grave later. He chuckles.

He watches as the tip of paper and tobacco smolder. A sharp exhale and an ember would consume his masterpiece, for it was a masterpiece, and he needed no critic to confirm that notion (though, of course, they would).

What’s the measure of mankind? He watches the embers. How many intrepid Neanderthals would have murdered him to have fire at their fingertips while here he sits, flipping a lighter open and closed?

Who deserved the Lamborghini parked outside his flat, the CEO or the lady in Baltimore whose great-grandpa picked the cigarette tobacco?

He takes another drag, struggling to untangle the liminal space between his masterpiece and his cigarette.

Iterations on iterations on iterations, all for him to sit there before a masterpiece, rolling a cigarette between stained fingers. It strikes the artist that most people only knew of Sutherland because Churchill burned his portrait.

He flips the lighter open and holds it between the cigarette and the painting.

What’s the measure of a man?

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