Cualitro was an aspiring painter who lived just above a storefront along Bloor Street, in the Toronto neighbourhood known as The Annex.
“My main problem,” he would tell friends as they sipped cup after cup of the cheap, burnt coffee from Future Bakery, “is a lack of motivation.”
His darkly-dressed friends would nod in varying degrees of agreement, in between pouring themselves another cup of coffee from the self-serve carafes when the cashiers weren’t motivated to care, which was always.
Then, when the afternoon shadows grew long, Cualitro (not his real name) would buy yet another canvas with the money he had saved by stealing coffee and return with it to his apartment.
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And there, he would spend his evening at home with his real problem; a lack of ability to draw, paint, or doodle.
It wasn’t simply a lack of talent. It was simply that he had no ability to do it.
Whenever he tried to squeeze paint from a tube, it would squirt around the canvas and hit something else; the floor, the ceiling, the fridge. If trying to doodle with a pencil, it would catch fire before he could join two lines. He tried colouring books; the crayons would escape from his fingers like balloons, zipping around the room and exploding like firecrackers. When taking charcoal to his sketchpad, the sketchpad would crumble into dust.
He couldn’t see that his gift of destroying art-making tools on contact was a new artform. And when his exhibit of all-white canvases was sold to the AGO, his friends all said he’d sold out.