Every night he painted wide crosses on large canvases, and when he woke the next morning, a pale featureless figure would be stretched across those crosses, the paint still shining wet.
At least, this is what he claimed in interviews when he held his yearly exhibitions, fourteen paintings every time without fail. He also claimed that each one he sold extended his lifetime, meaning he could continue painting crosses for those bodies to appear upon; at one of these interviews, looking tired as though sleep had evaded him for weeks, he added that he worried what would occur if he failed in his duty – the exact word he used: duty – to paint those crosses for those pale bodies, then abruptly stood up and walked away, never discussing it again, not even the following year when he was asked about it, simply shaking his head and asking for the next question.
Of course, few believed him, or some believed half his story while discounting the other half. Those who did believe him entirely – their minds always open to anything that could not be easily proven - did so fervently. But, despite the credibility, or lack thereof, of his claims, the paintings sold, almost as swiftly as they were placed on the walls of the galleries, a different one every year. And it was not solely the believers who bought them, but also the disbelievers and doubters, some of whom would hold onto the work for a year or two and then resell it for close to five times the original price, occasionally more, so that there seemed, after decades of this, that there was always one of his works appearing for sale in art galleries and auction houses, not including the forgeries that arose from time to time, some laughable in their execution, others so exact it was rumored that the artist himself had been fooled by one or two.
The less said about the NFTs the better, hundreds of them appearing across the numerous platforms devoted to such things, all claiming to be by the artist himself, all denied by him whenever he was asked, his spitting contempt almost visible as he spoke. “I am an artist,” he would say, “dealing with art in reality, not these illusionary pieces that only exist on a screen.”
He would never identify who it was upon those crosses – featureless as they might have been they clearly were all of the same person – but it did not take much imagination to see who it might be, with certain groups being extremely vocal in their opinion, either in support of who they believed it to be, or against.
He was mocked in the press and across social media, but also revered, sometimes in the same breath, while occasionally death threats surfaced, though he claimed he did not take them seriously, for the work he was doing would protect him; none of these threats ever amounted to anything more than the words used to shape them, causing some to consider that he might be right, that he was indeed protected.
And through it all the paintings continued to sell, as they still do, while the artist himself continues to paint them – with another exhibition scheduled for the coming month – clearly intent on painting for as long as his body and life allow him to, if not forever.
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