The young artist tried not to blink. The soft rustling of maps and clinking of wineglasses grew behind him as straggling patrons entered his spacious room in the gallery. He purposefully ignored them trying to keep his body rigid and upright on a tall stool. Next to him an artist's table was laid out chock full of supplies brushes, chisels, cans of spray paint as well as tubs of oil paint. The well-dressed patrons were being ushered in by the stern museum guards who politely reminded them to be courteous and respectful. Tensing his body as if he too were a sculpture the artist kept his back and neck straight staring intently at the sculpture in front of him. He looked down at the clear floor for a moment. He could see it. The final stage of his performance. The floor would be stained by streaks of paint that signaled the climax of his project. He then stared ahead hoping to remain as emotionless as possible. Stealing a glance at the audience he had hoped that no one saw his sliver of doubt. Then the doors quietly closed as the last of the guests entered. It was time. The artist closed his eyes. Hello, everybody. I’m TheRubber. Today, we bring you a Tale from the SCP Foundation. The artist sat in the middle of his gallery room surrounded by works he had created. Paintings of still life portraits of himself in various depictions portraits of clients whom he thought were attractive sculptures, etc. Most of them were abstract in nature. The artist believed that an abstract representation is always more exciting than any old conventional, concrete form. Yet, he quickly found his collection to be looking increasingly stale some of which he couldn’t even bear to look at for more than a second. The art he had created had lost its lustre. They all felt stagnant. The artist could no longer derive any meaning from his art. “Is this it?” he thought. “Is this all I’m capable of? Some lifeless statues and paintings?” For a moment he found no answers to his question. It troubled his mind greatly. The artist got up and started pacing around. He stopped at a huge block of concrete that he picked up somewhere in the city. It was an oval-shaped concrete mass with rough edges almost one head taller than him. An insignificant block of concrete if not ugly. Yet, there was something about it that attracted him. “What if I can create something that’s so captivating one simply cannot refuse to look at it?” His hand reached out. It was cold to the touch and hard, as concrete usually are. And lifeless. “I will make something out of you!” he said aloud. “I will give you life.” A week later the artist began a series of performances at a gallery. It was an art show that would go on for weeks. The artist called it: “A Depiction of Human Thoughts - From Life to Death”. For weeks, he had been sculpting a statue using the concrete. The first few performances were uneventful. The patrons would watch the artist work as he slowly transformed the shapeless concrete into a vaguely humanoid form. At the end of the session some concerned patrons would keep their eyes trained on the statue watching the still-seated artist straining his eyes to look ahead. Their fervent discussion grew fainter and fainter likely to forget this experience as they returned to their comfortable lives. A few more sessions later the concrete began to take shape. The artist heard murmurs some suggesting that no artist would truly put themselves at real risk. The rumors about the statue coming to life was definitely fabricated as part of the show an exaggeration meant to enhance the experience. Art is a facade after all. Who would risk their lives to be just another footnote in the long annals of art history? The young artist stared ahead, uncaring. The statue prohibited him from reacting after all, according to the rumors. Counting the seconds in his mind as another group of visitors shuffled in the artist contemplated his next move. Silently and solemnly his project was nearing completion. Last session. It was the 37th time he’d performed this routine already. Since the opening of the gallery the colorless concrete mass has steadily grown more grotesque with each application almost a mockery of the human form. He's nearing the end of his project and today was an important milestone. He stood in front of the sculpture and closed his eyes. He ignored the tittering sound of the audience shifting in an attempt to get a better view. He imagined the background of his creation. He thought of its story and the struggles it had experienced while slowly taking on the form given by its creator. The sculpture with its misshapen head and roughly carved legs was designed to communicate a duality in rawness artificial yet natural refined yet unpolished carefully designed yet carelessly executed. A humanoid figure that feels exactly halfway between painting and sculpture. Two large, unpainted orbs stared blankly at him and the audience behind. He silently turned his back to the statue and picked up his supplies eyes still squeezed shut. The audience muttered to themselves trying to focus on both the artist and the sculpture. Pretending that he didn’t care about the pairs of eyes that were trained on him and his sculpture the artist started to hum a little tune as he took off his glasses and put them on the stool. He felt around the table blindly and picked up a brush. He held it up to the light tilting his head as if he was unsure as if this wasn't part of a planned routine. He brushed it gently against his left eyelid. The ticklish bristles teased him to look around. Then, he put it back down on the carefully arranged table and felt around until he found another similarly dry brush. He brushed this one against his right eyelid still shut tight. The room was silent save for the rustling of the brush. Another brush. Held up to the light. Right palm brushed. Another brush. Held up to the light. Left palm brushed. Right cheek. Left cheek. Right ear. Left ear. He held up his last brush a rather large one that was soaked in black and tossed it into the pile of discarded brushes on the floor. Audible gasps were heard only to be shushed by the ones not in the know. This wasn't part of the routine not usually, at least. The artist felt around his station rather clumsily whether intentionally or mockingly until he felt a tub of paint. He couldn’t see what color it was. He didn't care what color it was. His back was turned to the half-painted sculpture the whole time. Dozens of eyes remained locked on the duo wanting to look at the artist at the same time not daring to look away from the sculpture. He gingerly lifted the lid off the tub of paint the toxic fumes indicating its fresh untainted status. He turned back around to face the statue then slowly advanced towards it. Walking up to face the tall statue he dipped his left hand into the tub of paint. He smeared it all over the orb-like eyes on sculpture’s face. He gently felt around the sculpture then attempted to apply paint to it in a generous and fair manner. The artist took another deep breath. The next step of the routine was the easiest but also the most dangerous. His eyes still firmly shut he lifted up the tub of paint and poured it all over himself. Some of the paint splashed onto the audience. A few shrieks were heard with a loud complaint of stained boots. The artist didn’t care which rich donor's fur coat got ruined. The museum could pay for the damages later anyways. The paint segment broke the tense atmosphere in the air. Many audience members looked away to address their clothing situation assessing the damage and momentarily forgetting the performance. They were unaware of how grateful they should be to the small handful that remained mesmerized by the performance. Perhaps they believed in the rumor about the statue. An incredulous and outlandish rumor it was and yet they wished not be the ones to debunk it. The artist opened his eyes. The statue did not move. It towered over him its stubby arms outstretched. He embraced the statue from below just as the statue looked to embrace the artist from above. The green eyes looked nice. Still staring at the statue the artist got up and walked backwards slowly. He returned to his stool then once again sat tall and straight as the statue in front of him. The museum patrons clapped politely as they had always done so. It was always the same soft applause. “It’s so boring, it’s always the same,” he frowned, looking at the audience. “So docile, flat, lifeless.” “Let’s introduce some energy and excitement!” Without warning he grabbed another tub of paint and splashed it at the audience. They shielded their faces and eyes against the paint. Loud shrieks once again filled the room of which some were abruptly cut short. Sounds of bone snapping and popping were heard. One of the patrons opened her eyes and saw the artist’s statue right in front of her its hands reaching around her neck. Another patron cried out as he saw the bodies lying on the paint-stained floor all with their necks violently and cleanly snapped. The artist opened his eyes and saw in front of him nothing but chaos. The room was splashed with red paint the other works of art ruined, his included. Patrons scrambling and fleeing screaming and shouting. He felt a tingling sensation running down his spine. “This is it.” The artist couldn’t help but smile eventually bursting into laughter. This was what he needed a perfect performance that encapsulated the chaotic nature of life and the universe. The artist saw his statue standing still in the midst of chaos so he closed his eyes again and the sounds of pop snap and crackle resumed once more. Then it was silence. He opened his eyes and saw his creation right in front of him arms reaching for his neck. The artist moved closer into the statue’s embrace. He reached to touch its face. It felt like concrete alright. Yet, within this cold hard shell lived a soul that would demand the attention and admiration from people for their lives would be forfeited otherwise. What a beauty you are... Too bad nobody will be able to see you come alive... I suspect I won’t have the pleasure too. Such a shame... The artist stared straight into the statue’s eyes visualizing his last moments with his creation. He knew that as soon as he blinked his greatest ambition would be completed. His final masterpiece would come alive. He smiled, and closed his eyes. With a snap the curtains closed on the artist’s final project. His legacy would live on through his statue and no one will be able to move their gaze away from it.
