Genius is Subjective

The man was an absolute genius. His artwork was nothing short of amazing, and his skills were beyond compare. He'd studied art since he was able to understand the concept of putting pictures on paper. By the time he was nine years old he knew anatomy. He'd studied art in Paris and at Oxford. And he was an older man, now, divorced and running his own art studio, his name proudly displayed on the sign on the side of the building. He owned two studio apartments and had students coming to him from all over the world, of all ages, begging and pleading for him to teach them how to draw, how to improve. How to be as great as he.

And she hated him.

She didn't deny his artwork was wonderful. She didn't deny his talent, or his artistic superiority. The man had every right in the world to critique everyone around him, to tear down and apart the drawings presented to him. It was practically a consequence of showing him your artwork; you may not get it back.

But, that was all right. He could do that. He was amazing.

Still, she couldn't have more contempt for him. She sat and listened to him lecture about phi relationships and the golden section and color and the rules of anatomy. She knew that he knew what he was talking about. There was no doubt he was an amazing teacher, an accomplished artist. And she felt so sorry for him.

They moved on, and he showed them the work of his students, using his sharp, obnoxiously green laser pointer to embellish himself as he talked. And his students were amazing, too. More amazing than she was. They were amazing in their own way. He taught them to be this amazing. She knew that was amazing in itself.

And then it was over, and he sat down and passed out flyers. It required hundreds of dollars to take his classes. And she knew that every dollar was probably worth it. And still, she felt so badly for this man. Anger, not jealousy. She knew she could be that amazing one-day, and she knew she would be. She didn't need him to tell her that. But what she felt for him was sorrow, with a slight hint of hatred.

As he passed out the flyers, she drifted away to look at the artwork hung around the studio. Truly beautiful pieces. But, they were not her goal.

She returned to the lecture room, her eyes settling upon the small art table in the corner. She was before it without realizing and holding a small cutting knife, used to sharpen charcoal pencils. She smiled wryly at it, and dropped it into her coat pocket. She silently rejoined the others, never having been missed, nor detected when she returned.

The old, divorced, balding, fat artist was talking. He was speaking of "lesser arts," the exact kind she held dear. But this was not the full reason she felt such hatred and pity towards the man. It was a small part, but it wasn't the whole of it. She fingered the knife in her pocket, smiling again, shaking inwardly. No one could detect it from the outside, and that's exactly what she wanted. Never let them see you sweat. She smiled pleasantly, and listened.

He continued to explain about the "lesser art," about how technical art really is and must be. He talked of reading "real literature," not the horrible escapism books they write now, with the wizards and magic. Let reality influence you, motivate you. Take from what is.

Not what could be. This he didn't say, but she heard it loud and clear.

He nodded at them, as the leader noted they had to be leaving. He continued, though, as was his nature, about the "lesser forms," giving the final remark, "If you continue on within such mediums, you will never grow up. You will remain an infant forever."

She clenched her teeth.

The leader ushered them outside, but she hung back, continuing to stroke the knife lovingly. He disappeared into a back room.

She looked to a blank wall and pulled the blade back out. She made quick work, and ran to catch her departing classmates.

And this is what she wrote:

"It is better to be an innocent infant, than a jaded old man."