if Shane was somehow channeling his artistic spirit.
It was crazy, of course; so crazy that Shane had not even allowed himself to consider it in the daylight. Only now, as he looked down at Wilhelm’s artwork, was he aware of how much that strange suspicion had taken root in his mind. He felt like a man being told by his Doctor that the tests had come back negative, that he was perfectly healthy, only then accepting what had been, up to that point, the very real possibility that the black spot on his chest X-rays had been cancer.
He smiled to himself. His imagination had gotten the better of him, that was all. Imagination was a great thing, a profitable thing even,
if
you could keep it on its leash. Let it run wild, and it could turn cannibal. It had happened to much better artists than him. Shane sighed deeply. The painting upstairs was
just
a painting; curious and slightly disturbing, perhaps, but no more so than any number of works he’d seen created by the starving artists, the ones who were the slaves of the muse. And compared to some of those, the painting upstairs wasn’t very strange at all; it was even downright quaint.
That afternoon, after lunch, Shane changed into cargo shorts and an old Long Island University tee-shirt, sprayed himself liberally with Deep Woods Off, and went outside. He collected a spade, the garden shears, and the Black and Decker weed-whacker from the shed, piling them all into the old wheelbarrow that sat in the tall grass in back. Whistling happily, he pushed the wheelbarrow to the front right corner of the yard, to the entrance of the mysterious path he had discovered yesterday. Maybe he wouldn’t clear away the whole thing, but it was something to do, even if he only made a tiny bit of progress each day. And it seemed like a worthwhile job, even if it took him all autumn.
He had a vague idea that Gus would approve.
He made more progress than he expected that day. It was, in fact, relatively quick work, simply lopping off the branches that barred the path, digging up the occasional bush, and then using the weed-whacker to mow down the undergrowth, revealing the flagstone footpath. Most of the stones were covered with a thick carpet of moss, but that was all right. The moss softened the path and gave it a sense of whimsy, like something elves might skip down in the moonlight, on their way to the cobblers to put in a night’s charitable work.
Shane made it all the way to the curve around the gully, where the bench was buried in the drift of hydrangeas. The sun had begun to lower, and he guessed it was approaching five o’clock. Had he really been at this for almost four hours? He was hungry and tired, and his back was sore from the digging, and yet none of those things felt especially unpleasant. He’d lived a very sedentary life for the past decade, and the day of hard manual work, much like his unusually long bike ride a few days earlier, was a welcome break. It was good to know that his body was still capable of such exertion. And surely it was good for him, both mentally and physically.
He had a sneaky feeling that he’d allowed this most recent painting to get hold of him a little too deeply. That wasn’t a bad thing, exactly, as long as he kept it in perspective. The imagination was a great tool, as he’d thought that morning, but give it too much slack and it could turn on you and devour you.
The idea of the cracked artist was well known, virtually a stereotype. From Van Gogh to Jimmy Hendrix, history was littered with the corpses of creative people who had succumbed to the cannibal impulses of an out-of-control imagination.
Shane had given it a lot of thought. It was almost as if creativity was too big a current for the human mind to manage particularly well. It required an awful lot of insulation and careful handling. The volts of the imagination, he’d decided, were careless and indiscriminate; they would either power the artistic machine or fry you in your boots,
It was crazy, of course; so crazy that Shane had not even allowed himself to consider it in the daylight. Only now, as he looked down at Wilhelm’s artwork, was he aware of how much that strange suspicion had taken root in his mind. He felt like a man being told by his Doctor that the tests had come back negative, that he was perfectly healthy, only then accepting what had been, up to that point, the very real possibility that the black spot on his chest X-rays had been cancer.
He smiled to himself. His imagination had gotten the better of him, that was all. Imagination was a great thing, a profitable thing even,
if
you could keep it on its leash. Let it run wild, and it could turn cannibal. It had happened to much better artists than him. Shane sighed deeply. The painting upstairs was
just
a painting; curious and slightly disturbing, perhaps, but no more so than any number of works he’d seen created by the starving artists, the ones who were the slaves of the muse. And compared to some of those, the painting upstairs wasn’t very strange at all; it was even downright quaint.
That afternoon, after lunch, Shane changed into cargo shorts and an old Long Island University tee-shirt, sprayed himself liberally with Deep Woods Off, and went outside. He collected a spade, the garden shears, and the Black and Decker weed-whacker from the shed, piling them all into the old wheelbarrow that sat in the tall grass in back. Whistling happily, he pushed the wheelbarrow to the front right corner of the yard, to the entrance of the mysterious path he had discovered yesterday. Maybe he wouldn’t clear away the whole thing, but it was something to do, even if he only made a tiny bit of progress each day. And it seemed like a worthwhile job, even if it took him all autumn.
He had a vague idea that Gus would approve.
He made more progress than he expected that day. It was, in fact, relatively quick work, simply lopping off the branches that barred the path, digging up the occasional bush, and then using the weed-whacker to mow down the undergrowth, revealing the flagstone footpath. Most of the stones were covered with a thick carpet of moss, but that was all right. The moss softened the path and gave it a sense of whimsy, like something elves might skip down in the moonlight, on their way to the cobblers to put in a night’s charitable work.
Shane made it all the way to the curve around the gully, where the bench was buried in the drift of hydrangeas. The sun had begun to lower, and he guessed it was approaching five o’clock. Had he really been at this for almost four hours? He was hungry and tired, and his back was sore from the digging, and yet none of those things felt especially unpleasant. He’d lived a very sedentary life for the past decade, and the day of hard manual work, much like his unusually long bike ride a few days earlier, was a welcome break. It was good to know that his body was still capable of such exertion. And surely it was good for him, both mentally and physically.
He had a sneaky feeling that he’d allowed this most recent painting to get hold of him a little too deeply. That wasn’t a bad thing, exactly, as long as he kept it in perspective. The imagination was a great tool, as he’d thought that morning, but give it too much slack and it could turn on you and devour you.
The idea of the cracked artist was well known, virtually a stereotype. From Van Gogh to Jimmy Hendrix, history was littered with the corpses of creative people who had succumbed to the cannibal impulses of an out-of-control imagination.
Shane had given it a lot of thought. It was almost as if creativity was too big a current for the human mind to manage particularly well. It required an awful lot of insulation and careful handling. The volts of the imagination, he’d decided, were careless and indiscriminate; they would either power the artistic machine or fry you in your boots,
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