While drinking a can of Asahi, I contemplated the bureaucracy of my own life. The days were neverending and the days were full of afterthoughts that sometimes I was not sure if I was truly living in the present. What does “present” really imply? Am I not always subjugated by the tension of past and future? Constant worries and thoughts flooded my vision and I desperately wanted to cling to something that would free me from such thoughts. A Youtuber had recommended people like me to start mindfulness but it all came to me so slow. I wanted instant gratification and a fifteen-minute yoga stretch was just not benefiting me much.
That is when I got into unresolved mysteries. I saw a Youtube clip of a missing person and found myself being drawn into the mystery and the what-ifs. The fact that no one had found an answer to the question of who-killed-who added onto the notion that we really were living on a planet full of darkness and mysteries. A few days later, I saw a clip of a young woman making strange hand movements in a hotel elevator. The uncanny nature of the whole footage made me cling to the mystery even more. What is she doing there? How did she end up there? On days off, I found myself eating stale potato chips while being glued to the monitor full of text. I was hooked. And there were always plenty more mysteries for me to discover.
The catalyst came one day when I found a hardly known wall of text written by a user named “James32”. James32 wrote the following:
“On July of last year, a painter named Samim went missing after a hiatus in his gallery involvement. Known for his flamboyant portraits of his peers and colleagues, he was on his way to do an exhibition in MoMA when he suddenly left without a trace. Police entered his small apartment in East Village but found nothing out of ordinary. His fame has been on a significant decline unlike his precessors who usually gained fame when he/she passed away. It is a strange story in which his status and body both disappeared overnight.”
I read the wall of text one more time. I checked the replies that the post had gotten. Users disregarded Samim as a poser, as a person who was desperate for fame and had taken ridiculous means to achieve so. They claimed that he was still alive hiding under a different name and that he would be back once his Samim artist persona gained enough attraction. One replied that the conspiracy theory of his disappearance in itself was a form of art that Samim was chasing after. It took me several minutes to comprehend the responses. I scratched my head. But wasn’t Samim on his way to MoMA? What more fame could he want?
I went on a search engine and looked up some portraits that he had drawn. It was difficult finding his portraits at first because they were only shown on his personal Instagram page. But wasn’t he on his way to MoMA’s exhibition? They resembled Andy Warhol’s paintings with the colors vibrant and visible. Was he just a copycat? I was not sure but I felt that there was something alluring about them. I grimaced. Was I just falling into the trap of his own conspiracy theory that he had built? I shrugged and continued on with the search. I stumbled upon a self-portrait of Samim on a large canvas. He was a man in his 30s with thin stubbles on his chin and a serious face that rivaled many politicians of the era. I saw him as a person who, like any other, was chasing after a dream and hope. And I suppose he failed miserably. I closed the tab and moved on to the next thread.
A week had passed. I was feeling groggier than usual. My head was so full of different mysteries and wonders that I had forgotten how to take care of myself. What was I? Just a troll surfing on the websites and being a bum for everyone involved? I needed to find something else to do. Yes, that was it. I needed to find another hobby.
I remembered the vibrant pictures that Samim had drawn. The simplicity of them which portrayed everything that had to be said of a person’s demeanor and characteristics. Out of blue, I looked up the name James in the web browser, took out a piece of paper, and started drawing. At first, the pictures were aimless which thus only captured the silhouette of a stock image of a person named “James”. But soon after, I incorporated different colors and pens; the pictures flourished— alive—and I marveled at my own creation. I had a talent and I could not control my own excitement.
Days went by. I quit my day job at God knows what. My small apartment began to be filled with different paintings and scraps of paper. I was a hoarder yes, but doesn’t everyone need to be a hoarder for their own art that they truly cherish?
I could not say that my painting was perfect. Imperfection was what gave different flavors to different artists. No one could say that Samim was a perfect artist. But his portraits captured the essence of the raw human emotions that could not be replicated otherwise.
I began to look closer at the intricacy of Samim’s painting. No, he was not a copycat of Warhol. That is what a novice would say! Each length of a stroke, each color that he had chosen. They all portrayed what the painter had in mind for the depth of what a human being can be. Not described in words but in lines and colors. I hyperventilated. It was too perfect.
It was around this time that I decided I had to follow my deep, desire of instinct. I left my apartment without a word. What else was needed? I did not need money nor was I afraid of the government or landlord for missing payments. I was free. I found what I was born to do, and that was all that mattered. It all made sense to me then. Samim and his philosophy on life.
I took a bus ride to Manhatten, New York. I took a bag of paper and pencils with me. I wanted to define myself among so many awaken individuals. I would use sharpness rather than a variety of colors to distinguish my painting. Only pencils. That was all that I needed.
Months had passed. I was living from corner to corner in East Village. I had not made any profit but it did not matter. What mattered was what would happen afterward. I took pictures of each painting and posted them on social media. No one would be seeing it now. But that was part of the process.
I was almost at my wit’s end. It was a cold winter here in Manhatten. And I was still walking along East Village—wanting to capture what Samim had in mind. But my paintings could not be sold. It was a brutal day, week, year. My hope faltered. It was the end of the process. One night, I brought a shovel and dug a hole in the park next to the East Village. I dug and dug. Until it was big enough for a person to be stored inside. A person.
I took the paintings with me—all drawn from the very beginning until today—and laid them in like a mattress. I then entered. I grasped my pencil as I closed my eyes. Someone was shoveling the dirt back into the hole. I knew who he was and it did not matter. I smiled. I was right for the first time in my life. I closed my eyes and let myself be engulfed in darkness. It was the process.
James33: “On December of last year, an artist named Samim had disappeared in Manhatten. He was known for painting portraits near East Village, Manhattan. He was especially celebrated for his vibrant paintings drawn entirely in pencil. He was on his way to being nominated for MoMA’s exhibition when he disappeared. His fame had declined significantly since his disappearance. More than likely, no one would recognize his painting now.”