Writer’s Challenge

An Artist walks into a Bar and …

An Emotionally Frustrated Artist Challenge

A nod to Timothy, B. A. Cumberlidge, and Earnest Painter for their articles and ideas about the frustrated artist.

An emotionally frustrated artist walks into a bar and sits down on one of the tattered red leather bar stools. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair and face look like he just walked through a car wash, and tripped on the way out. He motions for the bartender to come closer.

Aretha has been working behind the bar for years and understands that fragile line between madness and being mad. The man before her is teetering on the edge of both.

“What’s your poison?”

“Your best scotch and an answer please.”

Aretha, brings over a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and begins to pour. The artist motions for her to double down and gives her a thumbs up when she’s finished.

He pushes a $50 bill across the bar and grabs the glass.

“I, ah, had a showing over at the gallery on Fifth and Lexington. The one with the, Renoir print in the …”

“I know the one,” Aretha cuts in. “Didn’t go too well I take it.”

The artist runs his left hand through his hair with a pained expression on his face. “Like a Rottweiler grabbing you by the …, no, not well. Should have, but didn’t. Could have, but no, it didn’t.”

He swallows half the brown liquid, closes his eyes and fights back the tears.

Aretha studies the man like a historian studying a film of the sinking of the Titanic. Loss, love, regret; all of them showing on this one man’s face.

“Your first? Showing.”

He shakes his head. Then slowly opens his eyes.

“My last.”

She cleans the polished wooden bar with a used rag and waits. But not that long.

“You’re giving up.”

The artist nods, then quickly shakes his head. “Not giving them the pleasure.”

“Who?”

“Fucking art critics. Those who can’t … you know the line.”

She cleans some more. Worrying a spot that’s never going to come out.

“I’m actually pretty good,” holding up both hands. “Make a good living at it.” He stares at Aretha for a moment, as the rag comes to a stop. “Would love to paint your face. It’s been around.”

“Hey.”

“No, no, didn’t mean it that way. It’s seen a lot. I can tell. But it’s still beautiful.”

He looks down at his glass and brings it up to his lips, finishing it.

“What’s the question, Aretha asked. Folding the rag neatly and setting it aside.

“Huh?”

She leans against the bar, closer to the artist and his problems. “You said, your best scotch and an answer. So, what’s the question?”

“Oh.”

He looks away as a middle-aged couple stumble into the bar, arms wrapped around each other; struggling to kiss, walk and get to the table before toppling over.

“Right. Why do I give a shit, you know? Like I should care what the fuck other people think? I know who I am. I know what I can do. I don’t need anybody’s approval to be an artist. Fuck them. Their magazine. Their laptops. And the Teslas they drove in with.

Aretha holds up the bottle and looks at the artist. He nods. She pours.

He holds the glass up and at the bartender.

“To art, beautiful woman and …” but the words get caught in his throat. He waits, then tries again.

“You’re right. The only person that matters is me. The only one I have to answer to is me. Fuck the rest. In the best possible way of course.”

“Of course.”

“You know, I’d really like to paint you. I promise, I’ll do a good job.”

Aretha turns and puts the bottle of Johnnie Walker back on the shelf. Turns back and watches the artist for a few moments, then slowly smiles.

“I think you would.” She grabs a pen and bit of paper from under the bar and writes down her name and number and pushes it over to him.

He looks at it and smiles. “Aretha. After the …”

“Yeah. My mother’s favorite singer. Mine too now. So …?”

The artist stands up. Adds more cash to the tab and looks at the small slip of paper again.

“I’ll call you, Aretha, soon. Thank you.” He starts to leave.

“For what?” Aretha asks, arms crossed and smiling.

“For the scotch, and the answer. Be talking to you.”

The frustrated artist moves towards the door, as the couple start laughing again, before falling headlong into the jukebox.

Aretha looks over, grabs the rag and starts polishing the bar again.

Joe Luca is writer and editor for ILLUMINATION and a published author and writer of children’s stories, short fiction, non-fiction articles, screenplays and poetry. Publications include Child’s Life, Children’s Playmate and others. There are some other articles below — have a read. And thank you for stopping by.

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