| William Kauffman Effective Speaking 101 Prof. Cheryl Wilson MWF 8:00-9:00 Perception Paper Short Story 09.15.06 I’m not perfect, and I never will be, especially after an experience I had a very long time ago. There’s a reason why we aren’t perfect, and I found it out the hard way. Though it brings back some frightening memories, I will tell you my tale in which I got way too close to perfection. In Florence, Italy, it is the year 1564, and I put on my garments and hat and head off to the downtown for another day of work in the art-shop. I am not just the average artist, however. Under the brilliant leadership of Sir Fulgenzio Taddeo, seven other artists and I secretly meet in an abandoned church sanctuary which we ourselves restored in order to create the most beautiful art ever. We can’t just simply make this type of art out in the open, under the scrutiny of the public. It must be polished and chiseled with the finest, most patient care. Indeed, we would not stop until our art was literally perfect, without a single blemish or imperfection. Little did we know how close we were to achieving our goal. The sun is just beginning to rise as we assembled in the Sanctuary of Art, as we liked to call it. Today I would be painting a portrait of Miss Susanna Fiorella, a faithful accomplice to our art movement and a humble wife of our master, Fulgenzio. She kept a different last name in order to keep from being associated with Fulgenzio, because the fewer links that we have with each other in the outside world, the safer our art-making operation is. There are six other artists who are in the game, not counting Fulgenzio. Two brothers, Alfeo and Anselmo, draw excellent pictures with brilliant realism. Ciro, a young lad who was found on the street by Fulgenzio after just having made fabulous, first-rate graffiti on the back of a market building, mixes paint for Fulgenzio and is just barely able to keep up with his lofty demands. Armando and Antonio are two friends who got kicked out of the art school in Florence for making art that was too controversial, and they found their home with Fulgenzio, usually doing the behind the scenes work like setting up and tearing down shop. Finally, Little Alfonso is the do-it-all servant of Fulgenzio, and at the tender age of eleven is not gifted enough to make art with the rest of us, though he is learning. He works for food and clothes, since he is an orphan. The eight of us work together like bread and wine. By about mid-day, I am finishing touch-ups on my painting of Miss Susanna, while Alfeo and Anselmo are almost done with their drawings. Meanwhile, Fulgenzio is on the final strokes of his greatest masterpiece yet, an epic painting of St. George and the Dragon, complete with the brave, horse-mounted knight in water, yielding off the fierce animal with his sword. We withdraw our paintbrushes and sit back to look at our wonders. It seems as if they were actually perfect, and in fact, they are. That’s the scary part. [SHOW PICTURE] In a sudden motion, St. George draws his sword and swings at the ferocious dragon that he is fighting. Obviously, this surprises Fulgenzio greatly, and he falls off of his stand onto the table where Armando and Antonio are grinding pigments into oil. My portrait of Miss Susanna also comes alive, as she stands up from her chair and gazes mysteriously at her real-life image. The real Miss Susanna, shocked at her clone, gives off a quick scream and faints. Afeo and Anselmo also reach perfection in their drawings, as their portrayals, one of a thundercloud and the other of a flock of birds, becomes lifelike. This may sound like an entertaining experience, but it is really quite troublesome. The sea water from Fulgenzio’s painting immediately floods the floor, with gallons gushing out of the painting each second. St. George violently battles the dragon, and his sword poses a threat to all who were around him, including the dragon! I don’t know what to do; none of us do, as we frantically look at each other in shock and awe. The water is rising fast, however, and the crashing thunderstorm on top of us does not help. In fact, the lightening that is landing feet away from us is a bit of a threat, as well. It was Little Alfonso who comes up with our only hope. He shouts across the room, “The art is perfect, so perfect that it became good enough to be true! Now, in order to survive, you must imperfect it!” It is a simple idea, yet hard to do. The water is now at our waists, and I am losing track of my art belongings. All that I need to do is give the new Miss Susanna a stroke of paint, and she will return as a painting. From paint they came, from paint they shall return. I see my paintbrush floating across the room, and make a few strides to capture it. With the brush in hand, I swipe Miss Susanna’s nose with the color red, and she morphs back into the painting. St. George and the dragon won’t be so easy, though. Just in time, a cup of white paint floats by me. I dip my paintbrush in it and sling a glob across the room, and it hits the dragon on its back. Instantly, it returns to the painting to which it came. I do the same procedure with the knight, and then throw the entire cup of white paint towards the ceiling, where it brings the thunderstorm and flock of birds down to their rightful drawings. However, the water is still just pouring out of the painting and it’s almost neck-level by now. Poor Little Alfonso is almost underwater. I don’t realize that this is the easiest of all to overcome; I look up and see a jar of never-been-used orange paint on a windowsill. Stretching my arm just enough to reach it, I simply tip it over and it splashes into the water, and causes the water to get sucked into the painting so fast that we have to hang onto the walls of the sanctuary so that we don’t get sucked in with it. Now we’re safe and sound, though extremely wet. We lie panting on the floor of the sanctuary, glad to be alive and, more importantly, not perfect. I’m not perfect, and I never will be, especially after the experience I had a very long time ago. There’s a reason why we aren’t perfect, and I found it out the hard way. Though it brought back some frightening memories, I told you my tale in which I got way too close to perfection. So, for all you perfectionists out there, remember: perfection can only get you so far, and wherever it does get you, you might not want to be there. |
