Meditation on eggs

Dear diary,

Say a man lives in a room with four equal walls. This man paints the south and east walls of his room off-white; then he paints a mural across the north and west walls. Here’s my question:

Did our man do a good job painting? And would you call him an artist of genius, or just a skilled craftsman? Do you prefer the mural, or the white walls? Would you pay this man to paint your own room; and, if so, would you tell him to give you the same treatment: half blank, half mural? Were he to give you a choice, what would you instruct him to do?—would you say: “Paint all four walls one uniform color; not eggshell white but lamb’s-blood red”; or, alternately: “Instead of only covering half the wall-space, could you do a mural for my own room that covers every surface that is visible, even the ceiling and the floor? Actually, on second thot, could you just physically remove the ceiling, so that I can see the stars at night and receive their influence? How much will that cost? What!—you’ll do it for free? Wow, deal! Thanks a million.”

I like how you responded. You said:

“To your question ‘Did our man do a good job painting?’ I answer: Yes. He did not drip any white drops on the floor, and he did not meander outside of the edges. He also didn’t smudge any paint on the trim; and his coats are even and smooth. As for the mural, I like its subject matter as well as its execution.”

And you also said, “RE: Would I call him an artist of genius or just a skilled craftsman? —I’d say he’s both. He’s a craftsman who is obviously skilled, which is evident from these plain-colored walls: nobody without technical know-how could have achieved such a finish. And he’s also a genius artist, for, anyone who has eyes to see, when viewing this mural, will become short of breath: It’s obviously a masterpiece.”

Moreover you said: “You also asked me if I prefer the mural over the white walls, or vice versa. Hmm… I think I prefer the mural.”

“What’s the next part of your question?—” you continued: “Would I pay this man to paint my own room? Absolutely. And would I choose that he give me the same treatment as he gave his own room — that is, half and half — or any other combination? I guess I’d ask him to first paint all four walls different colors, but make all the colors plain, without the addition of any mural elements. I’d say, ‘Do the north wall orange, the east black, the south lime-green, and the west grey.’ But then after he finished that job, I’d grab his arm and say ‘Don’t leave yet.’ And I’d add another item to the work order. Actually four items; I’d say: ‘Now paint a human figure on each of the walls. The figures can be clothed or nude; that’s up to you; but make sure that you can see their whole body, from their hat to their boots; and center each form so that there’s ample space around its borders (I don’t want any of the figures holding hands); and give one of them a halo. You can give all four of them halos, if you like; but at least give a halo to one. And you can paint them from life, hiring a model to pose on a plinth so that you can reference his or her contours; or you can just paint from your imagination: it doesn’t matter to me how you arrive at the four human figures, just put them on the walls: one for each color.”

*

Now what I love about you rich folks is that, once you get impassioned about something, you won’t stop till you’ve realized your vision. So after our Q&A session, you leave the plaza and rent an apartment with four square walls. Then you hire a painter — you find one online whose rate is cheap (you’re a tightwad), and his name actually happens to be Mr. Painter, which you feel is a sign, almost like your personal God is telling you “This is the one.” And he begins the job immediately:

You instruct Mr. Painter as above. After a few days, he finishes the four background colors. That was the easy part. Now your hired help himself has to do some hiring: Mr. Painter does some online research and finds a model who is willing to pose unclad. His name is Meduso.

Then on Wednesday, you walk into the apartment unannounced (which act alone shouldn’t have been too big of a deal, since you paid for the place — I mean, you’re the one who’s renting it (the true owner is the bank: the bank owns everything); plus the door was left ajar, presumably for ventilation; cuz wet paint stinks) and there you see a sight that you’ll never forget:

Instead of Mr. Painter painting the portrait of Meduso as a glorious bullfighter, here is Meduso, totally naked, holding the brush and putting the final touches on a portrait of Mr. Painter as Enkidu from the Epic of Gilgamesh. Looking to your left, you notice in horror that Mr. Painter, posed on the plinth, has become solid marble.

“What happened?” you say.

“Enki warned me that you would wonder,” sez Meduso. “Here—” and he hands you a note.

You unfold the paper and immediately recognize Mr. Painter’s handwriting. (You grew familiar with it during your visit to his website; for he, being less than savvy with a keyboard, instead of typing into a database (“or however the Internet Whiz Kids normally make the words appear on the monitor”, to take a quote from the site itself), opted simply to write out in longhand all of his business information, such as rates and references; then he scanned his notebook & posted the image files on one continuous screen that the viewer must scroll thru.) The note reads as follows.

Lord, forgive me. I cannot finish the job. What happened is this. My model got the best of me. I am enthralled. After beginning a general outline, I looked up to behold his face, and I could not look away: My will got thwarted by those bovine eyes of his. Do NOT meet his gaze. Once he stepped down off the pedestal, he took the brush from my hand and embraced me. I think he might have broken my spine, for, when he let go, I was numb & frozen stiff. He hoisted me up & placed me where he had been, upon this base. I could only move my hands, and he gave me this blank card to write on. Now I feel my fingers freezing up, so I will end here. Adieu.

You hold the note toward Meduso. “Is this true?”

“Yes; I mean, it’s told from his perspective,” he sez. “But take a look at these walls: I think I did a pretty good job, considering that I could only guess, by studying the fragmentary plans that our friend here compiled before he chose to become a statue, what the idea of the project was supposed to be.”

You look around at all four walls and see that there are depictions of several portly businessmen dancing in a circle, locking arms, high-kicking, with hooves for feet. Not one has a halo.

“Was this,” you ask, gesturing to surrounding figures, “your idea or his?” and you tilt your head toward the Painter sculpture.

“Well, honestly,” sez Meduso, “I have to admit that it was originally his idea. But I improved upon it greatly.”

You take another glance around the room. As you observe the work, you begin to think a little deeper about this scene that Meduso has painted. In each figure, you notice a few more details than you did during your first cursory look. Your rage begins to subside. You start to nod slightly, and a faint smile forms on your lips.

“I kinda like it,” you say.

Meduso exhales, apparently in relief. “You have fine taste, Master.”

“Yes, yes — I say that we two should go get a drink,” you announce, while clasping your hands together. “We can find a couple of ladies, bring them back here, and show them your work. We can ask them their opinion.”

“OK!” sez Meduso.

It turns out that most of the damsels you manage to sweet-talk back to your flat are impressed with the mural. So, after that night, you decide to invest in an additional room, in another high-rise: this new place is slightly more rectangular than square, but it still is about the same dimensions. And you are able to sell the first room’s mural to the building’s owner for 500 clams. (You threatened to paint over it if he didn’t wanna buy it; and he counter-threatened to withhold your security deposit — but then you showed him the signed testimony of all those visitors who gave your walls a favorable rating, and this seemed to win him over.) Thus you and Meduso enjoy a partnership in mural-making that lasts almost six full years. Each new piece sells for a percentage more than the last. And you end up quitting while you’re ahead. You both part ways amiably. Plus the Painter statue (you find this out many years later, after you’ve almost forgotten about it) finds its home in a museum. It’s in storage at the moment. And someone affixed a plaque to its pedestal which reads: “EARTHLING / Author unknown.”

Mr. Painter himself still has hope that he’ll share the fate of Galatea.