The Renfield Syndrome by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 16

Caspian spent days creating one painting after another, each an outlet for the darkness that seemed to be consuming him. After a week, he sat in the middle of what could be called his creative screams. They all looked the same with similar colors and designs, as though he had become obsessed with the expression of something he could not yet define.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

His sudden burst of anger brought Reuben running down into the cellar, where he found Caspian sitting on the floor surrounded by what had amounted to nothing more than garbage.

“Caspian,” he said. “What’s wrong?” He walked carefully towards Caspian, being certain not to step on any of the painted sheets of paper. He knew enough about his history to realize that under the right circumstances Caspian could reach his breaking point. With a soft voice, Reuben spoke to him with the goal of helping him to a calm place, if Caspian did, indeed, possess one. He wasn’t an expert in psychology, but he didn't need to be to see that Caspian could easily be capable of any degree of violence. And with both he and Dorothy getting on in age, he was greatly concerned about the possibility that Dorothy’s safety might suddenly be in jeopardy. “I can’t do this,” Caspian replied. “I fucking suck at this.”

Caspian was clearly not seeing the logic behind art and explained that some of the greatest artists in history spent years honing their craft and many of today’s artists attended college studying to express themselves. But somehow, this was not a satisfactory answer.

“But I don’t want to go to college,” he said. “All those fucking people. I can’t stand people. They make me sick.” Reuben pulled up a wooden box, and cautiously sitting out of arm’s length, continued probing for something to say that would put Caspian at ease. “Caspian,” he said. “What’s the goal here? Is it self-expression? Is it to become an artist? What is it you want from all of this?”

For the first time, Caspian was forced to think about his circumstances and where he wanted his life to go. Yet, as quickly as the question had entered his mind, it had somehow been pushed out by some dark force bent on consuming him—destroying him utterly. “I don’t fucking care!” he screamed. Suddenly getting to his feet, he began grabbing the sheets of painted paper and ripping them apart.

“I don’t care!”

Rather than try to stop him, Reuben stood back and allowed his catharsis to unravel. He had quickly learned that one does not put their hands on someone who is agitated, lest they take the risk of them acting out in uncontrolled anger. As Reuben continued to gently talk Caspian down from his angry outburst, Dorothy quietly walked down the cellar stairs, drawn by what was unfolding amidst the many sheets of oil-covered paper. “What’s going on down here?” she asked.

Reuben turned and, motioning her back up from the cellar, turned back to Caspian.

“Caspian,” he continued. “There are lots of different forms of expression. We’ll help you find something, okay?” As much as he appreciated the offer, he preferred to search on his own. “I’d rather do this on my own,” he said. “I think that the search for expression is the same as the search for meaning.”

Reuben was struck by his sudden philosophical approach, and realizing he was right, put a hand on his shoulder.

“I think you’re right,” he said. “They seem to be one and the same, don’t they?”

Nodding his head, Caspian requested that he be left alone, and Reuben, knowing that creative people often live in relative solitude, obliged him and, turning back to the cellar steps, returned to the first floor. Caspian was now alone wrestling with his thoughts and looking out over the sheets of painted paper noticed how one caught his attention. It seemed beyond description, and Caspian, crawling through the numerous other failed attempts at artistic expression, held it up in the light. While he stared at it, it seemed to stare back at him. This was the one. Although it appeared as a cacophony of aimlessly applied paint, it spoke to him, conveying a darkness he could relate to. Perhaps it was some fragment of his damaged soul he had plucked out and smeared on the paper. But this was the one he would keep and soon might attempt to reproduce it on canvas, knowing that the oil paint would eventually dry and fall off. From now on, he would handle it with the utmost care, storing it on a flat surface away from accidental hands that might send it to the floor. A week later, he purchased a twenty-inch square canvas, and retreating to the cellar, began his attempt to reproduce what he had accomplished on paper. The anger that had always seemed to lie just under the surface faded as he put paint to canvas, and within only a few hours he had reproduced the original work. The paint was spread evenly and without clumps. From what he had read, when clumped paint dries, it tends to crack and flake off. A few days later, it was dry, and Caspian hung it on the wall of his room and, standing back, took in the darkness he had created. He firmly believed that this was a reflection of his soul and the pain he had experienced all his life.

“Fucking awesome,” he whispered. As he was admiring what was essentially his first successful work of art, Reuben walked into the room, and unbeknownst to Caspian, he stood behind him and took in what the painting had to say.

“Pretty dark,” he said. “But I like it.” Surprised, Caspian turned towards him with a slight smile, pleased that someone appreciated what he had done.

“Well,” he replied. “It’s not Van Gogh, but it might be a start.”

Reuben, continuing to study the canvas, made a suggestion. “Maybe you might want to think about painting other themes like a sunrise or the night sky. There has to be something else inside you besides pain.”

Caspian considered his suggestion and wondered if there, indeed, was anything else to paint from. He had never known anything but pain and anger. On canvas, these emotions only go so far, and if he was to truly paint, he needed to broaden his subject. He would, at least, have to try.