The Man Who Painted Himself

He dipped a brush into one of the jars of paint. In sweeping strokes he lightly kissed the canvas with his brush. In a trance he worked. The brush moved smoothly in great arcs across the virgin surface. Stopping briefly now and then to dip it back into the paint. Thirty minutes later Schapiro put the brush in a cracked ceramic mug half-filled with water. Taking a step backwards he looked at the image on the canvas. In delicate lines and wide flourishes was the beginning of a painting. It was the outline of the person reflected in the second hand mirror.

The next day Schapiro woke early. Not bothering to shower or dress he resumed painting. The outline of the previous day started to be filled in. White canvas took on a flesh colour. Mixing different colours to get the right shade Schapiro applied small amounts to his forearm. He did this until he got the exact colour of his skin. As he painted his eyes darted from the mirror to the canvas. It became hard to tell the picture from the reflection. All day Schapiro painted until the door bell rang. Before opening the door he placed the paint stained sheet gently over his work.

'How are you man?' it was Norstrom.

'Okay,' Schapiro let him in.

'You look okay, better than yesterday at least.'

'Amazing what a night's rest can do. Coffee?' As Norstrom nodded Schapiro put on the kettle.

'You been working man?' Norstrom pointed at the specks of paint on Schapiro' s arm and hands. Then he looked over at the covered easel. 'Okay if I take a peek?'

'No. It's...not ready yet.'

'Ready?' said Norstrom, 'You normally don't care if it's ready or not. I'm just curio...'

'This is different,' interrupted Schapiro.

'Different?'

'Yeah different,' turning around Schapiro poured the coffee. 'I mean, I know I usually don't care if you see my paintings while I'm still working on them. But this is different. I mean I'll show you it but not until it's finished.'

'It's okay man. I understand it's something special you're working on. And you don't want anybody to see it until the done deal. It's okay,' Norstrom was a bit too apologetic for Schapiro's liking.

Changing the conversation Schapiro was eager to talk about anything except his painting. The two friends talked for about twenty minutes, the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. Norstrom left.

During the following week Schapiro didn't leave his studio. He would paint till exhausted then sleep. In his dreams the world was an amalgam of mirrors, portraits and splashes of colour. Upon waking he would paint with renewed vigour the images that haunted his sleep. The painting came to be complete. After looking at the painting and his reflection Schapiro put his brush in the cracked mug for the last time. Deciding to reward himself, Schapiro tidied up the studio, showered and headed out to the Cloven Foot, the club he infrequently visited.

It was close to dawn when Schapiro returned home. He was drunk but this time hadn't made the mistake of mixing his poisons. This time he was happily drunk and drug free. He had bumped into some friends, fellow artists while at the club. They had heard from Norstrom that Schapiro was busy on some secret masterpiece. All of them were eager to hear more about the painting.

Schapiro related the story of the past week. The hallucination of the man in the moon and his dog, how the same mangy beast had entered his dreams, and of his inspiration for his latest painting.