The Perfect Self Portrait

They took Tobias’ brush away. Then it started, this obsession. Unbothered, he continued smearing the paints with anything available, especially his hands. His palms were slowly saturating with colors that could never fully be washed off, no matter how hard he scrubbed. Even at the mere age of ten, he outshined so many of his tutors. Never failing to impress with his untempered skill. A child prodigy they said, amazed by the things he could create. He’d disagree. He wasn’t good at art, he was art, and he embodied it with his entire being. Some said it was a sickness, that he was too obsessed. Those people just couldn’t grasp the profusion of his greatness. Tobias thought it was quite pretentious of them. They were simply jealous, because they know they are bound to be miserable little artists forever.

He flew through art school with raging colors, gaining the approval of some of the most prestigious teachers in the country. He moved on to become an art teacher himself, sharing his knowledge and expertise with eager-to-learn students. They would never compare to him, though, he would never state that outwardly. His destiny was to open an art gallery, where he would sell his finest works at exorbitant prices. With polished words and gracious demeanor, he was praised by everybody. He lavishly spent his riches. Even so, he never felt truly satisfied with himself and his work, always gnawing at his core was the knowledge that he could be better. 

Anything from mountains to houses, to cities, captured effortlessly. Tobias could do it perfectly. Emulating perfectly, things that may have been lost or forgotten in time. Turning run-down buildings into something worthy of the acclaim they received. Portraits were his favorite though, providing people with an image of beauty beyond what they themselves could see. And he felt that power. Still something constantly irked him. 

He had to turn to the one most perfect portrait. The one that would be remembered after all the others had faded. He must paint himself. Capturing the essence of his very being. 

His eyes scanned over the picture before him, it should have been perfect. It looked as if he was peering into a mirror, but it wasn't him, it wasn't correct. Of course, it looked like him, but it wasn’t realistic enough, nor alive enough.

Time and again this desire overtook him, this need for perfection. Anything not quite up to his standards got thrown away. Self-portrait after self-portrait, but it was never right. It was consuming. It was all he could think about. Why couldn’t he get it right? He fought to understand. 

It became clearer and clearer. Always, he was praised as a child for such trivial things, achievements that were an easy win. Trophies for drawing competitions, where no one else compared. Never for anything of worth. That praise was even more worthless if he couldn’t even paint himself. It was pathetic. 

He never left his studio. All his time was now spent planning and researching, rotting in his filth. His family, his friends, all tried calling, but he never answered. He did not have the time, isolation and perfection were the only options. Those who knew him best grew ever more worried. But Tobias could not bear enough mind to care. All they would do is stunt his ever-slowing progress. On top of that, he couldn’t leave home, and couldn't bear the thought of being seen in his shame. Nothing could matter, his future, his family, none of it. Not until he reached the success that only he could achieve. Until he mastered the picture of himself, if not, then this was a failure he couldn't survive. 

Day and night spent religiously pouring out at his easel. As time dragged on, with little to no sleep, the paintings became more and more abstract and grotesque. Humanoid figures with sick smiles, some just round smears. Hundreds of them, accumulating more and more by the day. Six days now he’d been awake. Surrounded by beings staring at him in disappointment, shaking their heads in disgust. It was driving him crazy; they could mind their own business. “Keep their glares to themselves,” he thought. After all. he had created them.

He’s so close to getting it right he can practically taste it. Taste it; His thoughts were no longer thoughts, but compulsions, his self-control dwindling on the edge. Locked away like this with no food or water, he was consumed by a piercing hunger and thirst. He’d have to make do with what he had. A mad thought he supposed, but determined. The soft pigmented oil tasted bitter, but he’d never been more satisfied. Bottle by bottle of paint he consumed it all until what was left were the remnants on his pallet. 

“Distractions, distractions, always things in the way.” He mumbled aggressively as he brought the brush back to the canvas. Meticulously placing each stroke he glanced at the mirror beside him. Paint covered his ghastly form head to toe, eyes slightly glazy, hair matted, he noted it all. Every detail had to be just right down to the amount of hair on his head. He turned back to the canvas to work, applying more and more pressure to the brush before it cracked splitting into his fingers. The canvas now covered with splatters of blood, born from fingers rubbed raw and sliced. Curiously he peered down, he thought it might be crimson paint oozing sluggishly from the wound instead. He bore it no mind and continued. With one last stroke, the newest piece was finished, but it was “Wrong, wrong, wrong,” he yelled and threw it aside. The empty stretchered cloth lay there mocking his frustration.

With a new canvas before him, he began again. The only paint left was crimson, he'd make do, like always. After hours, his vision began to blur. His brush strokes lagged. Sudden pain caused him to double over. He grasped hopelessly. His core, coughing and gagging. Choking on the thick sludge forcing its way from his throat. With one last forceful cough, paint splattered grossly on the floor and mirror. Back and forth he rocked, clawing at his arms and throat. It felt like the paint was pumping through his veins threatening to burst at any given time. He stopped, paralyzed, and stared at his reflection. Hysterically he laughed, It had been right before his eyes this whole time, how stupid he was. This whole time he tried to recreate something impossible, and it was hidden in a perception that had long since been shattered. He laughed and laughed until his breath completely stopped.

“Art is like looking through a stained glass window,” He heard once. “You can see through it but it will morph your perception of what truly is.” he finally understood.