The Man Who Painted Himself

One day you won't wake up from your nightmares.'

'Not...wake up,' a shiver ran down Schapiro's spine at the thought.

'Yeah. Look I've got to go. You going to be alright man?'

'Sure,' said Schapiro quietly.

'I'll call in later,' Norstrom said walking towards the front door. As he reached it he started to speak but Schapiro cut him off with a wave of his hand. Shaking his head Norstrom left the studio closing the door behind him.

Schapiro's body ached from lying on the hard wooden floor. The after effects of too many pills and too much alcohol didn't help things. For nearly an hour he sat relaxing in the chair. Finally as the clock ticked over to one in the afternoon he got up and went over to the easel draped in a multi-coloured, paint splattered sheet. Removing the sheet he stared at the blank canvas. Cradling his head in his hands he stood there for several minutes. Then he turned and went over to the fridge that sat in the far corner of his studio.

A drink of cold water woke him up, and finding some cheese and ham that wasn' t green he made a sandwich. As he ate he saw in the corner of his eye the white space that had driven him out of the studio nearly two days ago. In a desperate attempt to find inspiration he had left for a day and night of popping pills and swilling beer. Trying to find the muse that had left him. Instead all he had found was hallucinations and nightmares.

In the shower Schapiro leaned against the tiled alcove. He let the water thunder into his face. It massaged his face and cleared his mind. After twenty minutes of this stimulation he got out of the shower. Towelling himself dry Schapiro wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror. The image that broke through the wet reflection was a sorry sight. Bloodshot eyes, chaffed lips and a grizzled jaw and cheeks greeted him. Schapiro thought about how a person can change.

In a few days he would have a beard, hiding even more of his face. Yet if he were to shave now then those black bristles would go revealing the pale skin beneath. An artist didn't need to find inspiration for new paintings because it was always with him everywhere he goes. Each and every human being was a work in progress. Never complete, continually altering in shape and colour. The idea that gripped Schapiro was the ability of humans to actively change their image. From clothes to make-up, from hair style to Botox. The muse within Schapiro sang.

Placing his newly acquired mirror next to the blank canvas Schapiro smiled at his own reflection. As soon as he was dressed he had gone out to the local second hand furniture store. To his great delight he found what he was looking for straight away. A mirror that was large enough to reflect a person's entire form. And even though he couldn't really afford to spend the money the store owner wanted, Schapiro did anyway.

For the first time in a nearly a month Schapiro was eager to paint. It was a feeling he enjoyed. The desire to work that could over-ride the need to rest, to bathe or to eat. The excitement increased as he opened his box of paints and brushes. He cleaned his palette and gave the canvas a quick brush down to rid it of any dust. He opened the small jars of paint. The smell was sweet to his nostrils. Breathing deeply he let it permeate through out his body.

Stealing a glance at the mirror he could see the change that had come over himself.