The Mad Artist

'No, Sir, I'm not mad! There, now, I see a cynical smile on your face. You don't believe a word I said, do you? You know, you look like you're new here. Would you like to hear my story, how I got into this place?' went the man as I smiled at him. His eyes shone as he spoke. He seemed very keen to tell me all about himself. I retreated nervously, but he came closer. I took another step backward, and he stepped even closer. With a grin he said, 'Come on, please, listen to my story. Do you know that I was once a world famous artist? Do you know that my works used to be so coveted that millions of people would call it a drought if I did not spend a day painting?' He raised clenched fists to emphasis his point. I took a quick look around. An attendant was standing close by. That was a relief. And then sympathy edge out the apprehension I had initially felt towards the fellow. I told myself, why should I be afraid of this man? He's old, almost sixty and not at all strong. Even if he attacked me, surely I could resist.

The man now standing, grinning in front of me was an inmate of a psychiatric institution in Singapore. It was my first ever visit to a mental hospital. A group of us, all reporters, were being taken on a tour of the place to observe the treatment of the mentally ill and the therapy they were given to enable them to return to a normal life. Somehow, somewhere along the way I strayed from the group and ended up as the old man's unwilling audience. Trying not to offend him, I said, 'Oh, but I do believe you, I do. Well, alright, let's sit here on this bench then. I'd really love to hear your story.' Provoking his anger was definitely the last thing I wanted to do. When we were both seated, the man, still grinning, said, 'You know, you're the first person who have not laughed at me and ridiculed me after finding out my real condition. I'll tell you everything that had happened to me, so that you can tell others and that way help me get out of this place. My name is Sani. I've been held here for so many years. I really have no complaints about the place. They look after you, feed you and treat you very well. But...' he eyes flitted right and left as if to make sure no one else was listening, and then he leaned closer to whisper, 'they do not let me paint!'

He continued, 'I have two younger sisters. They are both happily married, comfortable life, rich husbands. But me, I'm poor... poor because I'm not allowed to paint and show the world what a great artist I am. And my sisters reject me because I'm a nobody now. Hah! To hell with them! They do not know that, compared to me, they are dirt! When I was young, I really hated school. By the time I was ten, I had been thrown out of school three times for bullying and tormenting my schoolmates. Nothing they thought me stuck in my brain. The kids in school had no peace when I was around. When I had had enough sticking thumbtacks and pins in their bottoms, I'd pull their hair or box them, and get into fights with them. I'd even pick a fight with bigger boys. I often lost, got cuts all over. but the violence, the pain, the blood were a source of pleasure to me. I loved seeing blood. It's inspirational.

'Father, who ran a grocery store, tried to change me. He took me out of school and paid a tutor to teach me at home. But that guy's luck was no better than my schoolmates. Oh, the things I did to him. Once, I stuck a long needle in his chair, pointed end up. How he yelled when he sat on it. he was quite badly hurt, but how exciting! I loved the way he suffered. One day, while waiting for him, I noticed a beetle on the floor. I decided I should find out if insects cried out like my tutor when in pain. So I caught the beetle and slowly cut its abdomen with a small knife. How it struggled. How it thrashed about and tried to get away. It flung its head left and right in obvious agony. But I carried on cutting its body until I could see its guts, its organs. Oh, even now, I could still picture how that insect suffered in the final moments of its life. It was very exciting. My heart beat furiously. I knew the beetle would die soon. Before it did I thought I must record everything I saw. Quickly I reached for pencil and paper. I had never been any good at writing, at finding the right word, but that time I suddenly turned creative and churned out line after vivid line after graphic line.

'Then I heated up a length of wire and used it to burn the wings and legs of the beetle. They cracked under the intense heat. The beetle twisted about even more violently, threw its mouth wide open as if silently screaming in pain. And I recorded everything I observed. Then I took another piece of paper and began sketching the scene. I had never drawn before but that time my hand moved with ease to depict the torture of the beetle. When I finished drawing, my whole body went weak. Cold sweat drenched me and I let myself drop wearily onto the floor. And as inexplicably as they came, all the inspirational ability I had until just moment ago, to draw and to write were now gone. unknown to me, my tutor had been watching everything I did. He rushed at me and snatched away the two works I had just completed. When he read and saw them, he was visibly shaken. 'My God, Sani, what drove you into this? ... Is there no compassion left in you?' That was the last time I saw my tutor.

Sani, his grin now almost permanent, continued, 'Seeing the monster I'd turned into, and tired of the mental burden I brought upon him, father sent me to art school, to study under a famous artist. I was then sixteen. Under the master's wings, I soon discovered a latent talent in art. I worked hard and mastered the techniques in two years. And you know what I painted? Nudes, among them, and animal life, landscape, flowers. But, as they say, Sir, with happiness comes sorrow. A year later, father died and, without him to pay for my studies, I had to leave school. I went back home and, having now to earn my own living, decided I would paint and for the first time sell my paintings. But I felt my works had to be distinctive if I was to gain prominence. What unique quality would make my paintings stand out among all others? That question occupied my mind everyday. One day, as I sat in the verandah ruminating over this, a kitten went by. My eyes followed it as it went on its way, and thereupon I remembered the events behind that very first picture that I drew about four years earlier... of a beetle in the throes of death. Immediately my body shook all over and I was drenched by cold sweat. It was an experience I had not had again ever since it first happened, till now. I felt this irresistible urge to cut that innocent kitten's stomach and paint its suffering. I told myself, every living thing had to die some day. What a fantastic inspiration it was, to find artistic quality in cruelty; agony as a work of art.

'I approached the kitten cautiously, grabbed it and took it to my room. having locked the door, I held a knife. With my right hand around its throat, I stabbed the animal on its chest and drew the knife down the middle of its body. Poor fellow! The knife writhed and clawed about, injuring my hand. I felt nothing, though. As more blood flowed, my body shook even more. Yes, I was no longer conscious of anything by then. The sight of blood had left me frenzied. I spent the rest of that day and all night completing my painting of the kitten in slow death. Finally, at dawn the next day, it was done. And then for the first time I felt drained and fatigued... so thoroughly as if my very soul had left me. All I could do was fall asleep. I was awakened the following morning by someone knocking at the door. It was none other than my art tutor. 'Sani,' he said as he stepped inside, 'I came...' Before he could finish, his eyes fell on the painting, now leaning against the wall. 'My God, Sani,' he exclaimed in obvious astonishment. For several long, silent moments, he just stared at it. Then, without another word, and before I could say anything, he dashed out. He returned half an hour later with four students who were my contemporaries in his class. The five of them gathered around to gaze at the painting. Then they shook my hand. 'Congratulations, Sani,' said the master. 'This is simply astounding. The best work I have ever seen. You're no art student, Sani. You're a full fledged artist, and no examination will be necessary to prove that.'

'I called this very first work of mine 'Between Life and Death.' The next day, I started painting again and completed within the next four month two works. But I wasn't happy with them. The colours were not to my liking and they did not excite me the way 'Between Life and Death' did. I soon grew tired of that sort of art. That was when the urge to do something bizarre  something extraordinary came back again. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't resist this desire to depict torment and blood and agony. I tried, but it was just too much. One day, I took a walk around the village to seek some peace of mind, and came across a lamb drinking from a little stream. When it saw me, the lamb tried to flee, but ran headlong into a thorny bush and fell with cuts all over. Well, I guess it just had to happen. The sight of bloody cuts sent shivers through my body and with it came this powerful urge to paint again. I hastened to grab the lamb and hurried home with the hapless animal slung over my shoulder. All the way home,  thought of nothing but the pleasure I had had before from what I did to the beetle and the kitten, and how that pleasure was going to be mine again now.

'That poor lamb met the same as the other two. I then immersed myself totally in what I'd set out to do, working the whole day that day and right into midnight, without pause, caring neither for food nor drink. I applied myself so completely to the task that, like before, I was drained of all energy by the time I finished the painting. The day after, I took my latest painting to my art tutor. He was very excited when he saw it and called it a masterpiece. But he was stunned when I told him how I did it. He shook his head and said, My God, Sani, the extremes you go to! Great work, indeed, but don't you think you've taken this thing a little too far?' Sani paused, and sighed deeply. He looked at me before continuing, 'But, Sir, you know, that painting fetched a very high price. I made enough money to gain the courage to tell myself, enough is enough, no more torturing helpless animals just for the sake of art. I was actually remorseful about what I'd done. 

'At about the same time, I married Asmah, a girl from my own village. She was just 19 when we married, fine features, lovely looks, to me the most beautiful woman I'd ever met. We lived happily for about a year. Then, with my savings depleted, I began to get restless and bored and decided to paint again. So I painted, landscape, flowers, that sort of thing. But it wasn't the same. People had little interest in such works. And so it came back again, the desire to paint the macabre to make an impact like before. It grew stronger and stronger, day by day, till I could not concentrate on anything else. I tried to resist it, God knows how I tried, but that only made it even more compelling. I was brooding over this problem at home one day, when I suddenly heard Asmah's scream coming from the kitchen. I rushed in to find her holding a bleeding finger. 'Please, dear, please bandage this. I cut myself using the knife,' she explained.

'My hands trembled as I bandaged Asmah's injured finger. When it was done, she went back to her chores while I took slow, troubled steps to my bedroom. I was still trembling all over and drenched by perspiration. I kept seeing how blood dripped from Asmah's injury. I knew then that events were no longer within my control. As if on command, I proceeded in a daze to shut all windows in the room, assembled my brushes and things and, when everything was ready, summoned Asmah inside. She came and, seeing the way the room was, asked gaily, 'Oh, are you going to paint, dear? But... why did you shut the windows? Isn't it dark?' All I said was, 'Would you come closer, Mah?' She came to me... and I held her tight and started kissing her all over. Asmah was taken bu surprise but did not resist. She responded with kisses too, and she kissed as if she could not give me enough.

'Then I started ripping her clothes off, first her blouse, then her sarong, then her underclothes, until she stood totally nude before me. Then I lifted her and lay her down on the bed. Asmah said nothing, and just smiled. She probably thought I was just fooling around. Her suspicions must have been aroused when her hands and feet were bound and her mouth stuffed up. And I guess she must have known what I was really up to by the time she saw the gleaming knife in my hand. She struggled to free herself, but failed, and the blade sank into her chest. Moments later, I began painting. And it wasn't oil. It was the blood that flowed on the floor beside the bed. I painted, and painted, as Asmah's body turned cold and as her blood flowed in drips to form a pool now spreading up to my feet. I painted without pause for two days and two nights, eating nothing and drinking nothing, until at last it was finished, a painting like no other, a work of art fit for the world, by a world famous artist, Sani.

'I went out of the house in delirious laughter, leaving passers by wondering what had happened. Some nosy fellows went in to investigate, and had the shock of their lives. I was arrested by the police, but managed to escaped from the lock up. I had to get home to look at my painting, for, despite those two days and two nights, I had little opportunity to study what I had done. I found my things untouched, the way I had left them. I grabbed the painting and hid it under my shirt. I left the place, and went wherever my feet took me. I was caught eventually and, after the trial, sent here. Well, Sir, I'm old and feeble now. I don't have long to live in this world. But before I die, I wish to show you my last painting, so that you may reveal to the world what a great artist Sani is. Would you care to look at it, Sir?' 

I did not know how to respond to him. If I said no, Sani would certainly be disappointed, maybe even angry, and try to attack me. I could say yes, but I really did not feel like it, because I suspected it was not going to be pleasant sight. I thought this over and finally decided to brave it. 'Well, alright, I'll look at the painting. he dipped into his shirt and produced a sheet of thick paper, folded many times over. He spread it out in front of me. 'Here you are, Sir, a masterpiece by Sani, the world famous artist,' he said confidently. And what did I see in front of me? Nothing. It was just a blank sheet of paper. Blank, like the emptiness that was the old man's life.