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Portrait

I commission a European fantastical artist to paint a portrait of me. His work on various cult science-fiction movies is intriguing and original, and I have his complete collection of Taschen books. The artist is known for his incredible and disturbing biomechanical landscapes and surrealist images of alien eroticism. I consider myself a fine subject for his work, possessed as I am of black leathery skin run through with nails, sinister tubes connecting my ears and nose to my groin, and safety pins for eyes. I welcome him into my home, which I created with my own bodily fluids and spare computer parts, the walls adorned with blasphemous and pornographic imagery. I move aside a pile of eviscerated male and female genitalia to allow him to be seated upon my couch, which is made mostly with alligator intestines painted bright green. He is a warm and receptive man, and we engage in idle chit chat for several minutes, before he indicates that I should be seated upon my throne of skulls. I adopt a sinister and lusty pose, hands clasped firmly around my fullsome breasts, which are in fact the barrels of massive-calibre machine guns. He sets up his easel and I wait while he prepares his canvas, rubbing it down with a pubic-hair brush with which I have provided him. I call my snarling maggot-pet to my side as it seems to be distracting the artist, and throw it a blacked baby heart, which it enjoys chasing around. Soon the artist begins his work, and I watch his movements with interest, as he draws broad sweeping lines and flicks the canvas with random colours of paint. He paints for maybe seventy minutes, before suggesting we take a brief rest. He covers the canvas with a small tarpaulin before I am able to sneak a look, and I run into the kitchen on my spindly crab-like legs to fetch him a refreshing beverage. My fridge is full of eyeballs and modems, but I find a bottle of Heineken near the back, and uncap it using the teeth of one of my three mouths. For myself I prepare a large bowl of stale urine. I bring him the beer and we sit for a while in relative silence, sipping our respective beverages, before he recommences work.

We continue in much the same fashion for over a week and, on the last day, he finally steps back from his heretofore invisible (to me) painting, and gives a satisfied nod. I am extraordinarily excited and leap from my throne, scuttling over to view the piece.

It is artistically impeccable, yet I am not satisfied. He has painted a meek-looking man of maybe twenty-two, chubby and with a spotty face. He sits on a dilapidated couch in an old t-shirt. He has freckled skin and longish hair, and looks a little crazy. I am saddened to see no indication of my evil, sexual and other-worldly nature. It is simply a painting of a plain man sitting on an old couch. The artist begins to protest at my wailing and gnashing of teeth, but I throw him from the house. He didn't get me right at all.

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