[ IP ] He 's not himself .

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 Supernatural occurrences, as modern media understands them, do n't really happen. We can all agree that vampires, for example, do not exist and never have over the course of human history. Humans do not become immortal after being bitten by creatures of any kind, and accepting blood from others is generally a long, drawn out process which can result in illness if not carried out properly. 
 
 This painting depicts a small child ( one rather crudely drawn, I might add, though I mean no disrespect to the artist as he was a dear friend of mine ) floating approximately twelve inches above his desk as his mother looks on. Although certain elements of the room point to a normal mid-income family ( poster, laptop, stuffed animal, etc. ) it is obvious that we are meant to regard the event illustrated as being one of fearful apprehension. 
 
 Small children do not normally float approximately twelve inches off their desks. 
 
 The fact of the matter is, however, that you have nothing to fear from the mere existence of this painting. It is patent in its break from reality, how the sheets have lifted themselves off the bed and the small, ugly child happens to have shoes on despite the onlooking family members being dressed in bedclothes, ready for a decent night's sleep ( or perhaps exiting it ). It delineates nothing more than a stretch of the imagination, and a rather wide one at that. 
 
 Additionally, a closer observation of the room suggests a mismatch in both proportion and paradigm. The small, floating child appears to be a great deal misshapen when compared to the children and mother on the left side of the picture. He is shaded in such a way that the features of his face and limbs betray a certain age of exceptionable difference to his frame. Furthermore, the left side of the picture has rendered a mother almost too tall for the doorframe, and children who most certainly would not have fit in their ascribed beds. The tone of the artwork clashes with itself as well; what might have been a Norman Rockwell-esque vision of a small room in an early 1920's home is marred by the anachronisms of current American culture. 
 
 At the end of the day, it is best to put the painting out of your mind. It is n't worth your interest. Art, I believe, should be grounded in the real. No true critic of the medium would pay to have this image upon their wall. 
 
 I do n't mean to imply that I am an art critic myself, of course. As I said before, I was quite close to the artist in question. We met once a week at a coffeeshop on Fifth, having been fast friends since our formative years. This was the last work of his that could have even been close to greatness. 
 
 I remember the day he brought it to the restaurant, rolled up in a cardboard tube as though he thought he could mail it straight to the Louvre. He had been all too eager to show it to me, too impatient to rest on his laurels until I visited his studio. 
 
 Of course I told him what I thought. The decline of his work was a long time in the making. He did n't sleep well then, rarely ate or drank save for his sickening habit of dumping a flask of whiskey in his coffee whenever we met. It strained him to keep up any semblance of social skill. 
 
 I remember his eyes were bloodshot, narrowly gazing at me as I told him, `` I'm afraid you might be losing your grip on reality, friend.'' 
 
 `` Ah,'' he rasped, `` this is more real than any work you've ever seen. I was there.'' 
 
 `` What!'' 
 
 `` I was there. I watched it all happen. I had to get it out of my mind. Had to paint it. Maybe now they'll leave me alone.'' 
 
 He never told me who `` they'' were. It's something I regret not asking him. He left the coffeeshop immediately, and the next time I saw him he was catatonic, wailing and tearing his hair out and covering his early masterpieces with the blackest paint he could find. He feared his art, feared the mere existence of everything beautiful and everything ugly that could possibly be conceived and brought to life in illustrated form. 
 
 He told me it was real. And sometimes I wonder. But one must push such worries out of mind. My friend has the best psychiatrists and doctors attending to him now at Pandora Research Hospital. Someday he will paint again. 
 
 You'll have to excuse his artwork; he's not himself.
