Perfection Paralysis

There once was a man called Bert Walker and he was almost one of the
Greatest Artists who ever lived. As it was he had to settle for the
best painter and decorator who ever lived this side of the Thames
(Putney).

It wasn't that he hadn't tried to succeed as an artist. He used to be
more dedicated than his other young contemporaries, putting a lot of
effort into studying form, light, shape, structure of composition and
materials. He didn't produce a lot of pieces when compared to other
artists, but what he did produce he put all of his effort into
it.

The syndrome he suffered from was 'Perfection Paralysis'. Many people
suffer from Perfection Paralysis, but usually the sufferer is the last
to realise. Bert had all the symptoms of Perfection Paralysis; he would
be changing, modifying, altering, restructuring and going over old
ground more than finishing any piece of work; he would ask for the
opinion of others and usually disregard what they were saying; he would
go around so many circles with their own different starting points that
took him, more often than not, right back to where he started from
without him realizing.

The day that changed Bert's life was the day he nearly became one of
the Greatest Artists ever known. He was working on a particular
composition of intricacy and complexity, attempting to capture the true
nature and perspective of the objects. He had chosen the room he was
painting in particularly because of the way the light shone through the
windows at particular times of the day. His materials were chosen
because after years of experimentation he was convinced that they
created exactly the effect he was looking for.

The day that changed Bert's life started in the normal way. Breakfast
at the caf? along the road his flat was situated on, after buying a
newspaper from the shop along the way. When breakfast was completed, a
brisk walk back to the flat, kettle on for coffee and the preparatory
walk into the room that was his studio.

He painted for three hours straight. Searching within his soul for
that inspirational moment that he knew was there and which would change
the course of this project. It wasn't coming, just as it hadn't come
for the last three days. Three years. Three decades. Bert was reaching
the end of his tether. Frustration was like a beast on his back; not
only was the weight unbearable, its damn claws were digging into him as
well. Another five minutes later, he threw the brush from his hand to
the other side of the studio. In a rage he walked away from his easel,
knocking it slightly as he went. Out of the studio he strode, into the
kitchen and to the cupboard where he kept the drink. He poured himself
a large brandy, no, an extra large brandy and got some ice from the
freezer. As he turned to put the ice in the brandy, the ice dropped
from his hand and fell to the floor.

"Fuck," said Bert out loud. It felt so good to say the word that he
said it again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" As he said this, he stamped his feet on the ice,
crushing it, spreading fragments over the floor.

He sighed, then got more ice out of the freezer, put it in the brandy,
picked up the glass and walked back to his studio.

As the events involving Bert unfolded in the kitchen, in the room
where the painting now sat a remarkable occurrence was taking place.
This was about the right time for the particular light that Bert had
identified to come through the windows and into the room. The easel
position had been adjusted slightly with Bert's intervention and now
the light hit the canvas at the perfect angle to capture the paint that
Bert had identified as being the best adapted to the light he was
searching for.

The composition was perfectly displayed, elegant in its appearance and
quite simply the best painting to never have been seen*.

(* The narrator would like to take issue with this comment in a later
attempt at putting the English Language together.)

By some enormous coincidence the light lasted on the painting until
the precise moment Bert stuck his head round the easel and looked at
his work. The beast of frustration was really making its presence felt.
Bert's face was clouded with rage. The composition looked drab, dull
and ordinary. Bert picked up a Stanley knife off the shelf of the easel
and walked slowly round to the front, eyeing the canvas as if it would
strike him at any moment with a deathly blow.

With the brandy in his left hand and the Stanley knife in his right,
he proceeded to slowly run the knife edge through the canvas, slicing
it to shreds. The whole process took over an hour. When he finished, he
burned all his canvases in the garden, had a shower and went to bed.
The next morning, he woke up and went into business with his friend as
an interior designer.

Five years after Bert gave up being an artist he was doing reasonably
well as an interior designer. Friends would admit that Bert had a
talent. Customers would lovingly admit that he had a beautiful talent.
The people who worked for him would grudgingly admit that Bert had
talent, but they would also point out that to work for him was like
stabbing yourself in the eye with a broom handle.

Bert was unreasonable. Bert would waste people's time. Bert would get
his staff to do things they had already done three times around and
then finally settle for what they did originally. It drove his partner
to his death bed at the age of forty with a heart attack. Simon never
admitted to anyone else (not even his wife), that it was all because of
Bert. Simon didn't have the heart for that.

Bert would wonder why people were so unreasonable, so downright wilful
when it wasn't even their company. Simon's half had been left to him
quite legally in the will. Bert would normally say (to anyone who cared
to argue with him):

"If you don't like it, you know where the door is."

Many would have to argue that, no, they didn't know where the door was
because Bert had moved it five times and they were waiting for him to
tell them where the sixth position would be. They usually responded by
asking:

"Where would you like us to put the door?" in a polite tone of
voice.

Bert never got the sarcasm.

The customer's loved Bert though. They were rich enough to put up with
his idiosyncrasies; it just made him all the more authentic. The effect
he had on their feng shui was remarkable, it changed people completely.
Bert's constant fits of rage at nothing in particular put him into the
category of artist, because the temperament fit the profile.

Yet no one knew. No one ever realised.

Designing the interiors of their rooms within the luxury flats and
mansions of Putney was the truly Greatest Artist that there never
was.