Journal

I asked that damn Brush for a pencil and a notebook to jot down materials, and it handed me a pencil and notebook that never wear down no matter how much I use them.

From now on, I mean to record in this notebook everything that has happened to me since I fell into this place — which I've decided to call the Art Gallery.

For starters, the painting I finished a little while ago was judged Trash. More precisely, "Trash so pathetic I'd apologize for even calling it a work of art" was the verdict the Brush delivered on my first piece. There were plenty of other remarks too — about the lines, the finishing, the arrangement of color, and so on — but my grasp of art isn't nearly refined enough to retain any of that, so remembering it was a lost cause.

Once the evaluation was over, I fretted that I'd be forced to paint again on the spot. The Brush, however, didn't push me at all. When I asked about it, the answer came back: since I can't leave this place until I produce a Great Work anyway, what difference does it make when I paint?

Fucking bastard.

Yesterday had been so overwhelming that I fell asleep early. Whether it was actually early, or midday, or the dead of night, I have no way of knowing — there's no means of telling time in this place — but I decided to believe I'd turned in early all the same.

And the moment I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was that antique chandelier, and despair hit me all over again. I'd gone to sleep praying that everything from yesterday had been a dream.

My stomach thundered the instant I woke. Come to think of it, I'd fallen asleep without eating a thing. When I asked the Brush if there was anything edible around here, it kindly escorted me to a room — specifically, through a door right beside my own. I'm certain that door hadn't been there yesterday. When did it appear?

Stepping inside, I found a space that looked as though every cooking tool and ingredient in the world had been gathered in one place. When I asked the Brush why an exhibition hall would have something like this, the answer was, "Cooking is a form of art too." I followed up by asking whether creating a Great Work of cuisine would get me out of here, and it replied, "If such a thing is possible."

So I stepped up with full confidence, made kimchi fried rice — and the Brush ate every last bite of it, then left me with a ranking of Mediocre Work.

Fucking bastard.

I decided to start studying today. Studying what, you might ask — but at this rate, the odds of escaping this place even if I spent a lifetime here converge on zero, so I figured I ought to begin by learning about art.

When I asked the Brush for a book to study from, it handed me a volume titled Art Fundamentals Even a Monkey Could Understand. Being insulted so openly put me in a foul mood, but I couldn't honestly swear my skills were better than a monkey's, so I had to swallow my tears and read the damn thing.

I'd kept up reading as a hobby before falling into this place, so I worked through the book quickly, then painted something based on what I'd absorbed. Compared to that first piece I'd drawn in blood, it looked far better, and I caught myself thinking, Maybe I've got talent after all — only for the evaluation to come back as Poor Work.

Apparently a painting loaded with raw emotion and zero technique had been easier on the eyes.

…Fucking bastard.

I woke up, polished off the meal I'd prepared the day before, and went straight to work. Pouring every technique I'd learned over the past month into the piece and loading it with as much of my own artistry as I could muster, I submitted it to the Brush with real confidence — and received a ranking of Bizarre Work, along with the note that clumsy technique is worse than no technique at all.

At the same time, the Brush handed me a new book.

Art Basics Even a Monkey Could Understand.

Looks like the sequel to the last one. In other words: stop wasting time and read this instead?

You. Fucking. Bastard.

A full year has already passed since I started this journal. In that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time, I've read through every book the Brush has given me.

Art Fundamentals Even a Monkey Could Understand.

I saw hope in cooking and spent an entire year practicing like a man possessed, yet not a single dish earned a ranking of Fine Work or higher. Maybe I expected too much too quickly — but when even a hundred meals a day couldn't push me past that threshold, it became clear I have no talent for cuisine.

I figure I should leave cooking as a hobby and turn my eyes back to painting. If this Brush has anything resembling a thought process, it must have brought me here because my gift lies in art, not in the kitchen.

The first painting I produced after so long was ranked Poor Work.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Ten years have passed since I fell into the Art Gallery. A few things I've come to understand in that time: it seems you don't age here. A decade has gone by, and my appearance hasn't changed in the slightest from the moment I first arrived.

Honestly, I don't know whether to be grateful for that or to treat it as a hideous curse. The former, because if I can just create a Great Work, I could return exactly as I was when I came. The latter, because if I never finish one, there's no telling how long I'll be trapped in this place.

Please — let me escape while I still have my mind intact.

Fifty years for a single Fine Work.

Fuck.

One hundred years after falling into the Art Gallery, the Brush pulled a Fine Work of its own. Ah — to be clear, I do not mean a painting ranked Fine Work. I mean it cooked up a scheme.

The substance of said scheme was this: although the Brush's evaluations are absolute, it suggested that hearing the opinions of other artists might prove useful in various ways, and proposed that I hold an exhibition of the works I had produced.

I ought to have noticed something strange at that point… but the "other artists" the Brush spoke of were not human.

Some were grotesque. Some were beautiful. Some were simply horrifying.

The artists — hereafter, the monsters — who accepted the Brush's invitation and came to view my exhibition delivered scathing critiques of my work. After a hundred years of labor, watching my children receive such treatment, I lost my temper and snapped, "You think you're so damn good at art? You fucking bastards."

The artists left an additional evaluation: that my manners were as lacking as my technique. And so, by the Brush's decree, I was forcibly made to speak with honorifics.

It is fucking so, if I may.

A great deal of time has passed once again. Much has occurred in the interim; to put it briefly, I came to realize that producing a Masterpiece with conventional materials alone was simply impossible. And so I requested new materials from the Brush, and for the first time, it permitted me to leave the Art Gallery.

Of course, "outside the Art Gallery" did not mean Earth. I arrived in a place filled with endless forest, and under the Brush's guidance, I was brought to meet someone — or rather, someones. They were monsters: palm-sized creatures shaped like humans, with luminous wings.

Their eyes were red, their teeth pointed like a shark's, and the moment they saw me they began to drool, smacking their lips with vulgar anticipation. Unlike the artists who had merely observed with a veneer of refinement, these things radiated a murderous hunger, as though they might lunge at any second. I was terrified — but whatever the Brush did, their teeth could not pierce my body. Following its instructions, I tore the wings from their backs and obtained a glowing powder.

The moment I recovered the powder, I returned to the Art Gallery. Having felt the fear of living things for the first time in a long while, I decided to turn in early. Tomorrow I shall begin researching how to put this powder to use. Still — being able to step outside the Art Gallery and feel the wind again made it a good day.

Decades have passed once more. In that time, under the Brush's guidance, I traveled to many places and acquired many materials. I encountered no small number of monsters along the way, but thanks to the Brush I was able to return safely with what I needed each time.

Having reached my two hundredth year, I held another exhibition. A far greater number of guests attended than at the previous one.

Regarding the first Masterpiece I ever painted, those guests, too, left favorable evaluations. But once the exhibition concluded, one artist offered a peculiar remark: "A shame that such beautiful paintings should come from so ordinary-looking an artist."

And I became a woman.

…This is most fucking wonderful.

…Perhaps I simply have no talent for painting.

It is time for a new approach.

There have been countless attempts, and countless failures. And still, I have not created a Great Work. Is it a matter of talent? Or the fault of my speck-like humanity? I do not know. All that is certain is that something in me is lacking.

And so I have decided to set everything down. For now — only until I surpass a Masterpiece.

I no longer know how long it has been since I last wrote in this journal. All that is certain is that a considerable amount of time has passed.

Having forgotten time, forgotten space, forgotten myself, and devoted everything to the work — I was able to produce several rather fine pieces. The Brush was gracious enough to evaluate them as Masterworks.

I find myself thinking that the day I create a Great Work may not be so far away.

If I forget time, space, myself, and everything else but the work a few more times — if I focus solely on the work — will I finally reach a Great Work? Or will I stop once more at the threshold of Masterwork?

Ah. While I was not in my right mind, I discovered evidence that several of my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠"works" have escaped.

Embarrassingly, they are pieces ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from a time when my skill was still lacking. Before I return to my work, I ought to retrieve those children and put them back where they belong.

I prepare for an outing, for the first time in a long while.