Excerpt: A Killing of Artistic License

There is a saying out there, and I am sure you have heard of it. It is one of those sayings that people enjoy to plaster around in different conversations, whether they are relating it to work, to their past, to something that has happened in their present, something that is happening right now, yet they are unable to give in and tell what their secret is. I, of course, know all about that. I have a secret, one that I never let anyone in on; one that has happened, the same one that is happening now, and the exact same one that will happen again, and again, and again. By this time, you, the one who will know all, the one who will know what has happened, and what will happen, are probably wondering what the saying is.

“There’s a great, white elephant in the room”. That is the saying that is used everyday to describe menial things, to let others know that there is a great, giant secret floating around, and it needs to be discovered. However, no one ever seems to notice the way that the elephant starts to take up all the space, to take up all the breathing room, how it starts to make people claustrophobic, to squish them into places that they may not want to go to.

Of course, as everyone knows, and how I have already explained it to you, the uneducated, the unwise, the great, white elephant is really only a metaphor for that which we are trying to avoid in our lives. Whether it be talking about a subject that bothers you, or something that makes you feel uncomfortable, or anything else that would make you feel uncomfortable with speaking upon the subject.

I’ve done a lot of things that would make a lot of people uncomfortable. But you, you the reader, it is you that will learn about all of my mistakes, my misgivings…and all of the things that I have done that I am glad I did, that I do not care if it disgusts you, if it bothers you. I did not do it for you. I did it for myself, and for all of the other artists out there that struggle every day with their talent, that driving need inside of them that only wants to give birth to something new, something no one else has ever seen before. To be original, is that not what everyone strives to be? The ones who go out to the park, whether to be with friends, families, dogs, by themselves…do they not also strive to be original? To talk about things no one else has talked about with their friends, to decide to do something with their family that no one else has thought of? Even the dogs are original; where once you would have found a Labrador, a Golden Retriever, now you see pink poodles walking with their owners who are wearing as much pink as the poodles are. Even by themselves, people are mindless, stupid, even as they try to be original.

Originality is a waste of time. The best painters always expanded on another’s artwork, and while they did that, more came up with something original, but was really not. That is the kind of thing my mother would say, as we sat together and I watched her paint. She would tell me how she got her start, with a classic paint by numbers set of Van Gogh’s flower paintings. She went from paint by numbers, to a style that was reminiscence of Monet, a painter that she idolized for his taste and beautiful works of art. She would sit for hours at a time, making sure that each and every mark that she made was absolute perfection. That is where I got this from; my mother. I have this urge, this need, and this drive to perfection. It all comes from her, this disease, it comes from her.

It’s called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and in my opinion, it is what hell would be like for a normal person. Every day, when I as young, I would go through the same motions every day. Get up; eat oatmeal with the exact same amount of milk. Wash my hands three times, go to school. Come home from school, change clothes, wash my hands six times, and then go upstairs to watch my mother paint. It depended on her picture at the moment; she could be gone for hours at a time, the door to her room shut tight but never locked. No, her room was never locked, but always shut. I would knock three times quickly, and then open her door. I can still remember the way the paint fumes would smell just as I opened the door. Wafting over me, I would sit there, in my own stool next to hers, and watch as red and blue became purple, as white was added to the mix and the color became a pastel of purple.

She died. I have always wished that I could paint, to commemorate her in some way, but paint…paint is messy in a way that I personally find repulsive. The mess, the colors blending together when all I want them to do is stay clean, neat, in their little boxes of paint. I suppose that is why I became a doctor. While the new medicine that is available to control these urges that I have, the idea of clean, white rooms with sterile objects, gloves you wear constantly, and a mask over your face to make sure no germs enter you anywhere. Some of my acquaintances know of my disease, and yet, they always ask me, “Why be a dentist? You’re constantly sticking your fingers in someone else’s mouth”. To them, it seems like something that I would not be able to handle. But they don’t understand the beauty of it, just as they do not understand the beauty of a living painting. They do not comprehend the way that by being a dentist, I make a place that is horribly disgusting, into something clean, something beautiful.

But, as I said before, not too many people understand my way of making my little section of the world someplace cleaner, someplace with beauty on every corner.

My name is Michael Ballinger and I enjoy killing people.