The Mind of an Artist

Oh, good, you're awake.

Don't struggle too much. I know what this must look like, but I promise that I'm not going to kill you. Are your ropes too tight? I can loosen them a little. Sadly, the gag has to stay in. You see, I can't have you interrupting me while I create my masterpiece or while I tell you how it came to be.

Do you recognize me? No? Well, maybe you aren't an art lover. My name is Roland DePriest, and I am a world-renown artist. My work has been seen in galleries, museums, and was once the showcase of any place that housed them. The critics said my eye for color and my ability to capture the human condition in a simple brush stroke were astonishing and even peerless. I had the ear of the world, and whatever I painted turned to gold.

It was to be expected, of course. Are you sure your bonds aren't too tight? I can loosen them a little. Well, if you're sure. I'd offer you something to drink, but all I have is wine, and I dare say it might react badly to the sedative I gave you earlier. Oh, now don't act so upset, I told you I'm not going to hurt you.

Now, where was I?

Ah yes, my rise to fame.

My genius was to be expected, after all. From a young age, I showed sublime talent with the brush. I had an eye for detail and a notable presence on the canvas. I was soon invited to study at some of the greatest art schools in the world, where my talent was honed and molded by some of the greatest artistic minds of our time. I debuted my first serious piece when I was thirteen years old. By the time I was fourteen, I had my first gallery showing, and for my eighteenth birthday, I was honored to have one of my paintings hung in The Metropolitan Museum of Art alongside the greatest works of our time. It didn't stop there, though. My work has hung in Le Louvre in France, The Acropolis Museum in Greece, and even The Prado in Madrid. Every serious art critic said how they "Wished they could see into my mind so they might glimpse my genius first hand," and for several years, I was the toast of the art world.

Sadly though, that only made my fall more spectacular.

What? What's wrong? Why do you look so scared? Oh, but of course, I guess it's a little disconcerting to see a man who's kidnapped you holding a 357 magnum. Don't weep so, tonight this gun is my brush, and the walls of this basement are my canvas. Oh, for the love of God, stop struggling! Tonight you're going to be a part of history, and your shaking and flailing like I'm a wild animal. Now you've made me lose my train of thought; where was I?

Oh yes, my fall from grace.

It wasn't a lapse in my talent, you understand. My genius never wavered, but these philistines grew bored with my work. The critics, men who had once praised me as a genius, now saw my art as "Overdone" and "Reminiscent of Earlier Work." They wrote articles about how I had piqued at twenty, about how I should be proud of my accomplishments, how I should cease to embarrass myself by continuing this sad campaign. They, again, wrote about how they would "Love to see within the mind of the artist so they could see how it had all gone wrong." I tried modern art, living art, interpretive art, but it all amounted to the same thing. The loving eyes of the public had turned from me, and now it's come to this.

Why do you continue to struggle and weep? I've already told you that I'm not going to hurt you. No, no, no, your job is to tell the world about my latest work. You are the herald of my genius, and you must tell the art world what I cannot. Listen to the sound the cylinder makes when I spin it; such a smooth sound, isn't it? You see, my friend, I've decided to give the art community just what it always wanted. If they want to see what's inside the mind of an artist so badly, then they're going to love my last piece.

Ah, I can hear the sirens outside now. I called the police ten minutes ago and told them where to find us. It will take them another few minutes to break the door down and make their way to the basement, but it will be too late by then. I'm going to remove your gag now so that you can help them discover my latest piece of art.

And remember, ish cold "Da Mine uf an Arbist."