Transcript:
Art…
is pain. Art is suffering. The great artists; van Gogh, Kahlo, Hemingway,
countless others; they all knew this. They starved, they hurt, they suffered.
They knew privation, poverty, pain. Tortured souls, each and every one of them,
suffering for their art. Every great work was conceived in a world of hurt and
born through blood and tears. How can one find the inspiration and passion for
such a work, if not in the fiery house of pain? For love? I think not. In love
all energy is focused without, on the object of love. There is none of the
conflict, the mind feeding on its own shortcomings in an endless vicious loop
to fuel such an undertaking. Unless it is not returned. Then, then it can be
found in love, for what is unrequited love, if not pain? Something so sweet
that is always out of reach. Yes, you can find art in love, provided it has
soured into pain.
In
this age of healthcare and government assistance, what modern masterpieces have
arisen? The only ones who feel the necessary pain have not the means t bring it
into the world, and those with the means have not the motivation. So none of
this world’s perfect suffering can be brought into the world as something all
can enjoy. All open-minded enough to see true beauty, that is. Not the shallow
contrivances of those we in these times deem as ‘attractive’. False people,
creatures built from clichés, chemicals and plastic. I was like all the rest of
them, I laughed at every banal joke that society fed me, worked every day in a
place I hated, earned money to fuel a boring relationship with a girl who stood
out not at all. I saw the world through the filtered windows of my television
and computer. And when this, all this was taken from me, I felt the same insipid
depression as so many others. Until I discovered my pain, my beauty, my art.
I’m
sharper than other artists. Even the greats. More cutting edge. My art is bold,
confronting but graceful. Bold, but delicate. Intricate. I keep my skills
finely honed, and soon the world shall see my masterpiece, my terribly beauty.
I write this, so that the world may understand it. I am not arrogant to say
that I am a great artist, it is a mere statement of fact. I have given myself
utterly to my heart, body and soul. It will be brought into the world through
my sweat and blood. I care not for money, for I shall not live to enjoy it. I
shall die for my masterpiece, my gift to the world. That it will exist is
enough for me, though it will likely not last long, in its original state.
Nature’s endless degradations will make sure of that. But it will be preserved
forever, in memory and the viral spread of the digital world. Like the great
artists, I sacrifice myself for my art. The world will know me. It must.
I
don’t pretend that everyone will accept my gift. It will be to… shocking, too
‘disturbing’ for that. But it will spread, and those who can see through he
thin veneer of human ‘respectability’, into the true heart of human nature,
they will understand.
I
have only one work, one masterpiece that I will give to the world. It is my
message. Some of you are stupid, I know. Else you are close-minded or weak of
stomach. So I will explain.
To
the ‘artists’: You are pathetic! Sniveling foolish cretins! You are nothing
before one such as me. Your ‘sacrifices’ pale in the face of true artists’
pain, and to call your insipid medium art is most heinous mockery. I spit on
you, all of you weak of spirit and heart.
To
society: Wake up! Open your eyes to the world around you. Stop bemoaning your
pity inconveniences and embrace the true pain that this world has to offer.
Embrace true passion. Dull, all of you, lackluster and gray. I spit on all of
you, ignorant dullards.
And
finally, to the Police, I say this. What you see before you is the result of no
crime. No-one was murdered, or tortured. There is nothing here but the
expression of purest suffering, my most beautiful art. Stand back, and you will
see. This is my masterpiece, the one gift that has drained my life away. My
bittersweet tears flow from this exquisite torment. I revel in each crimson
curve, every sinuous tracery, every stroke on that most perfect canvas.
Myself.
Transcript
ends.
Report:
Vatican City Metropolitan Police Department
-12-06-2002-
Above
letter found in home of deceased. DNA profiling shows no person but deceased
was present in the apartment, either at time of death or for a period
approximately 4 months before.
Based
on fingerprint and autopsy data, the damage to the body of the deceased was
self inflicted.
14-35
Based
on anonymous tip 2 days prior, squad car sent to investigate home of deceased.
14-44
Officers
found apartment door unlocked, and reported ‘absolute silence’ from the
interior.
14-45
Apartment
was found to have a single room. Body of deceased was immediately noticed as
being chained to the ceiling and heavily mutilated. Officers reported that the
only other object in the room was a steel table, upon which were 7 knives, 3
scalpels and the above letter.
15-26
Careful
examination revealed complex geometric patterns inherent to the cuts and
lacerations on the body of the diseased, and the resulting bloodflow on body
and floor. Posthumous psychological profiling underway,
Subject
has been deemed ‘too disturbing’. Information regarding the subject is
considered classified, and will not be released to the press.
