Birth of Modern Art

The portrait was done. Neat. Perfect. Convincing. A blot of impatient ink had been keeping herself from dropping down; gave in. It Smuged the very cheekbone that was formed into a mount– something ugly, but honest. He whisked off the blot in a sadist sweep (there was a pleasure in it after all that fitted the mood of self-loathing that had pervaded the whole business). He scrawled with his brush. The stain grew into strandy lines, then a steady streak of tangerine. There was a magic in the ruining of a portrait. He knew he had created modern art. Hastily, he touched here, touched there, connected the dots and the art was complete. With a flush of an unexpected pride, he hid his brushes and shut in the suitcase all his fears.