The Creative Process

“Next week from today! Friday! 6pm! Don’t be late! We need an hour to set the gallery, another to get the guests to line up outside, and another to kick the asses of anyone who doesn’t bother to show up, ha!” the teacher barked at his pupils. “Alright alright, session’s over tonight, see you at the show next week, artists!” 

Students began to shuffle out the door. An ensemble of characters wandered around gathering their art supplies from the studio before funneling back into the deep end of downtown. Single moms, exhausted construction workers, aspiring creatives, fluorescent bartenders, confused law students, the whole crowd.

And the teacher decided to walk up to the platinum blonde man with a handlebar mustache. The teacher towered over him, eyeing him up and down as he packed his supplies. The platinum blond man froze up and looked up at the instructor who towered over him. 

“Can I… help you, Ron?” the man said. 

“Hacky, how old are you?” the instructor shot out, arms crossed. 

Hacky chuckled. “This a trick question?” 

Ron stood his position, frozen like a statue. 

Hacky cut his smile. “28, sir.”

“28… Hacky, I want to let you know that your twenty eight years of being alive on this godforsaken capitalist consumed planet we call Earth are going to lead up to the ultimate finale of life next week in the form of a beautiful refuge we call an art show.” 

Hacky stuttered, “Wha- am I gonna die at the show!?” 

“No no!” Ron said, “Quite the opposite, my friend, the art show is going to make you feel alive!” 

“Respectfully, sir, it’s just a bunch of self-portraits, isn’t it?” 

Ron widened his eyes, visibly offended. 

“JUST self-portraits? Hacky, I want you to say those two words to me.” 

Hacky was too afraid to even ask why at this point.

“Self-portrait?” he said. 

“Slower.” 

“Self. Portrait” 

“Slow. Er.” 

“Self….. Portrait….” he said in a more whispered tone. 

Ron nodded. “Perfect” He pulled out a 16 x 20 inch canvas and handed it to Hacky. 

“You’re one of my best.” he whispered, and walked away. 

Hacky stared off at Ron as if he had just spewed insane conspiracy theories for an hour. 

Hacky spoke to himself, “Christ, I need a-”

—

“Drink?” the bartender asked. 

Hacky stood still, dazed and confused. He still had paint on his face, acrylic at his fingerprints, and the blank canvas in his hands. But now, he was at a bar downtown, one he had been to once before, but couldn’t recall the name of. No memory. No proof he had decided to even come here. He was just… here.

“Um..” Hacky looked around. Loud music and the smell of cheap cologne clogged sinuses of everyone that was willing to bring themselves here. Hacky played along. 

“Yeah, yeah, two shots of whiskey on the rocks, please,” Hacky said.

“No problem,” the bartender replied. 

Hacky sat himself down at the bar. The bartender slid the glass down to him. Hacky caught it flawlessly and took a sip. 

“*HACKL*” Hacky coughed, “Forgot I hate whiskey…” 

“Something wrong?” the bartender asked. 

“Um, yeah, actually, were we just in an art studio? Painting with Ron?” Hacky asked. 

The bartender chuckled. “No idea who Ron is, but you look like you asked a tattoo artist to give you the Jackson Pollick special, so might be telling some lick of truth that I just don’t remember.” 

“Wait, how did I get here?” 

The bartender paused. “You alright, mate?” 

Hacky thought to himself. He then looked down at his canvas and froze up. The whiskeu he spat out had layered itself on the blank canvas, staining the new life of a fresh slate. His panic morphed itself into the creation of a new perspective. 

He slammed down the last of the whiskey. “Two more of the same! Oh, and a rum and coke, please.” 

“You got it, mate” the bartender smiled, shooting a finger guns.

Hacky sat himself at the bar. A woman in a poncho sat to his left, pouring herself shots of Vodka. 

“Excuse me, ma’am? Might be uh, bit of a silly question but, where exactly am I?” 

The woman stopped in the middle of her next pour. She giggled to herself. 

“Mista’, you’re at a bar, where they serve alcohol. Have you ever had any?” 

The bartender swung by and dropped off a bottle of whiskey and a rum and coke. 

“I stand corrected,” said the woman. “Need any help finishing that?” 

Hacky smirked and eyed her bottle of vodka and pointed to it. 

“Might need that,” he said. 

“What for?” 

Hacky snagged the bottle. 

“Texture,” he said. He started to dribble bits of whiskey, rum, and vodka across the blank canvas. 

“The hell… are you doing?” the woman asked. 

“I’m an artist, honey, trust me” Hacky’s fingers slipped, dropping the vodka all over the counter. 

The woman watched in anger and disgust as the vodka bottle tumbled down onto the floor and shattered. She looked up at Hacky in unleashed rage. 

“You want some TEXTURE? How’s THIS for texture?” she shouted. She stuck her fingers in her throat and threw up onto Hacky and his canvas. 

“CHRIST, LADY!” Hacky screamed, “Oh, ma’am, you are going to-” 

—

“-pay?” the bank teller asked. Hacky sat at a desk across from a bank teller. Calm elevator music sweeped around the room, a harsh contrast to the loud bounces of dance music and squelch of vomit he had just gotten used to. Time and space had moved him again, it seemed.

Hacky looked down at his sweater, still covered in vomit. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Hacky asked. 

The bank teller was unamused. She had a snotty and withered tone to her voice, one that made it sound she could die on the job at any moment and not care that she hadn’t even left a will behind. 

“How would you like to pay…sir?” she asked. 

“Um I uh, think there’s been a mistake, ma’am” Hacky replied. 

“Sir, please, today has been going just splendid enough with your presence, please don’t grace me with any more of your wonderful introspections.” 

“Ah, yes, today…what day would that be?” 

The bank teller stared at him in awe. 

“Tuesday.” she said, mocking his slow attentiveness. 

An anxiety crawled up Hacky’s spine. Four days had passed and all he had done so far was get his canvas drenched in vomit and alcohol. 

“Ah, mhm! Of course! Tuesday! Haha, ha…” Hacky spoke to himself. “And what exactly am I, um, paying for?” 

“A fee, sir, to access your account with us.” 

“A new account? Why would I- wait, you’re charging me to use my accounts?” 

“We have to make money somehow, sir” 

“But you’re a bank?” 

“Yes, and?” 

Hacky scrunched his face and gave up the topic. 

“Okay..” he said 

“Okay.” 

“Do you have a problem with me, ma’am?” 

“I’m just wondering if you’ve ever stepped inside of a bank, sir.” 

A switch flipped in Hacky’s mind. 

“You know what, I haven’t,” Hacky said, matching the teller’s sarcasm.

“Really? Not surprising at all sir,” she replied, “Do you happen to know what money is?” 

“Why, no!” Hacky raised his voice, attracting the attention of other customers and bank tellers. “I have no idea! Can you show me?” 

The bank teller matched his tone and level. “Why of course I can, HERE” She slammed a one hundred dollar bill on the desk in front of Hacky. Hacky snagged the bill and slapped it in the middle of his canvas, sticking it to whatever vomit had not dried up yet. He showed his artistic beauty to the bank teller. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” he remarked, smirking. 

“You…” the bank teller said in a haunting tone. 

“What? Not a fan?” 

“You must leave this establishment, NOW” 

“Hmf, everyone’s a critic…” 

The bank teller leaped over the desk toward Hacky. 

Hacky screamed, “Jesus - !

—

“Christ himself cannot stop us now!” the priest exclaimed. 

Hacky found himself in the middle of a forest at the deepest, darkest hour of the night, laying down in the grass next to figures wearing animal masks and a priest in dark red robes at the front. 

“What the-!” Hacky yelled. 

“AHH!” the priest and his followers yelled back, jumping back in fear. 

“Who are you!?” the priest exclaimed. 

“I was about to ask the same!” Hacky yelled. 

“Well you weren’t even invited!” 

“Invited to what!?” 

“Can we tell him, boss?” one of the followers asked in a thick, Brooklyn accent. 

The priest eyed Hacky up and down. 

“Just who are you, sir?” the priest asked.

“Well, an artist?” Hacky said 

The priest smiled. “I like him,” he whispered to one of his followers. 

“Very well,” the priest began, “I shall formally invite you to thee ritual of the evening. We are an all inclusive organization, after all. So-” 

“Wait wait - okay, why are you wearing animal masks?” 

“Well, it’s, like, our thing.” 

“...Sure, okay, and why are you out here?” 

“I’m getting to it!” 

“Okay, jeez, sorry.” 

“Ahem, so,” the priest continued in a loud and demanding voice, “Welcome to the 57th Reincarnation of Time Itself! Where we gather in the forest today, on every third Friday of the month-”

“Wait!” 

“WHAT IS IT!?” the priest snapped 

“It’s Friday!? Shit, shit, I’ve got somewhere to be, man!” 

“Then why are you here?” one of the followers yelled. 

“It’s not like I chose to be here, jackass!” Hacky yelled back. 

“Okay okay, relax, my children,” the priest said, waving his hands down as if he was calming cattle. “We have similar interests! This is a great opportunity! You, being the one who was sent by our lord for some reason, want to be somewhere. And we, the divine followers, want you to…” 

Hacky raised his eyebrow at the priest. 

The priest scrunched his face and waved his hands.

“...leave.” the priest said. “So! I think we can help you here, we can send you to where you need to be!” 

Hacky, open mouthed, stared in disbelief at the priest. “Y-you, you can just do that?” 

The priest shrugged. “Well yeah. Just stand still, channel where you need to be, and just like that!” 

Hacky shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Okay sure yeah let’s do it.” 

“Perfect! Now, I need you to sit perfectly still.” 

The cult members put their heads down and reached their arms out towards Hacky, humming a gentle tune. 

A realization hit Hacky. He looked down at his canvas, covered in alcohol, vomit, and a hundred dollar bill stuck in the middle. 

“Texture…” he whispered to himself. 

He spat on the canvas and ripped grass out of the ground, sticking it to the canvas. 

“Sit… still!” the priest yelled. 

Hacky went sporadic. He grabbed anything he could find, circling the bill with bits of dirt and bark. He looked up at the cultists. The life and soul of an artist had absorbed itself into his prefrontal cortex. He ran up to one of the cultists and ripped off their animal mask, an odd looking pig face

“Hey!” the cultist barked. 

Hacky put on the pig mask and stood staring at the canvas. He nodded. Perfection. 

“Wait a minute,” Hacky began, “are you the ones who’ve been sending me around!? You son a -!” 

—

“Mother of god, it’s… it’s beautiful.” Ron said, in awe of Hacky. 

Hacky stood in the middle of the crowd holding his canvas, still wearing the grotesque pig mask. 

Some took pictures, some just watched, but all in the crowd were enamoured by the canvas Hacky held high for them. 

“The symbolism!” Ron exclaimed, “It all fits! How! How did you make this?”

Hacky took off his mask. “Um, I uh-”

“Nevermind,” Ron interrupted, “don’t spoil the process for me. The mystery capitvates me more. So, what do you call it?”

Hacky, for the first time in a while, was at a loss for words. 

“Just… a self-potrait” he said. 

“My god…” 

A single tear rolled down Ron’s eye.