Competition in the 21st Century

It feels today that every idea is taken, every thought has been said, every painting has been splattered, and every movie has been produced. There are 8 billion people and it seems today that all of them are fighting to become the king of the world, whether they would admit it or not, so how do you create anything impactful without becoming a copy of another artist, or just another pedestrian passing by on the scrolling feed? Has it always been like this?

It was spring of 1896, Jacques, a middle-aged man living in the heart of Giverny, France, was just getting home from work, and due to Giverny being primarily a farming village of just 300 souls, Jacques worked for 13 hours that day as a gardener to provide for his wife, who he wasn’t all that fond of, and 2 children, whom he loved. He lived a seemingly simple life, he felt moderately satisfied with being a provider for his family, but something had felt quite off recently, in the back of his mind, like a pit in the brain, he felt as if he was cursed with the longing to be something great, an artist.

It was all he could think about, at work, when gardening, he imagined landscapes coming to life from sight to canvas. And like a mouse hiding from a cat, not daring to make a sound that might give away its location, Jacques would paint, and paint every night just as he got home from work, after the family dinner. Jacques started this ritual 2 weeks after he got his first job as a gardener, which was now over 2 years ago. Before that he had never even thought of art, or paintings, as any more than the way a snake looks at a sunset.

But ever since Jacques was hired to the garden estate of Claude Monet, the brilliant painter, he started to feel a shift in the way he viewed the world, Monet’s estate was filled with his work in a way that felt so unexplainably unique, as if Jacques was seeing something he wasn’t meant to lay his eyes on. Jacques had worked all his life, and at 46 years old he thought he had no room in his life for art, yet there was something about Monet’s estate, and paintings, that compelled him in a way that he had never felt before. Jacques instantly felt a sense of great competition, as if Monet was the pinnacle of a man, or better yet, the pinnacle of the universe.

At that moment, 2 years ago, at the dawn of a new grueling job, planting seeds, and polishing the garden of a lonesome estate in the country, Jacques felt as if a switch flipped in his brain, he needed to become an artist. He went home that day, after thinking for 10 hours straight of nothing but the great paintings he would create that day, and when he was finally home, just after dinner, he began the first night of his new ritual, it started off horrendously.

His taste must have developed faster than his skill as he assaulted the canvas with a battery of repulsive splotches, he hadn’t a clue what he was doing. He got into a dip, and rise, like an ocean wave off the coast of France, which he had dreamed of going to all his life, of seeing what his boss concocted on the canvases in the estate, then Jacques would spend the whole of the day at work thinking, like a never-ending broadcast in his mind, of what wonderful works he would create when he went home.

Yet after dinner with the family, Jacques would begin his secret ritual in his attic, and every time it felt as if he could never beat the pinnacle of man, the pinnacle of the universe, his boss down the street. Jacques so desperately wanted to become a painter, and be admired for his work, and after two more years of this ritual, not a day missed, and not a day any different, his taste had finally begun to catch up to his skill, he was now capable of generating beautiful landscapes, lily pads, ponds, and beautifully imperfect artworks full of life, emotions, and meaning.

But it was all a lie. Jacques knew it himself, or rather, he was awakened to the lie after he showed his latest work to his wife, after hiding away his ritual in the depths of the attic all that time, and instantly, Jacques’s wife knew at that moment, her husband was a thief.

Clémentine was her name, she had met Jacques in 1887, and after he proposed in 1894, just a month after his new job as a gardener, Clémentine instantly knew she had made a mistake. It was as if Jacques changed overnight, he spent a total of 20 minutes talking to her in a week, he spent all his time in that attic, doing god knows what up there, yet she wouldn’t make a fuss about it, and would never ask him, as he was making good money, and she didn’t want to ruin it.

However, just as Clémentine finally saw what Jacques had been up to all that time, it finally started to make sense. “You have been stealing Monet’s paintings all this time!?” said Clémentine, shrieking at the top of her lungs. “What?” said a perplexed Jacques. Clémentine quickly continued, “I see over a hundred Claude Monet paintings in this room, I never would have dreamed that you would have been secretly stealing from Monsieur Monet all this time, just to put food on the table! He pays you well, and he is too kind to you. How could you do this? Now what will I do, I’ll be trapped with a guilty conscience in the back of my mind for the rest of my life if I don’t tell him!”

“I don’t understand, I drew these all myself, look, there’s my paintbrushes in the corner, I swear, I would never steal from Monsieur Monet, I promise my love,” Jacques stammered, speaking as if he was on trial for his life. “I am going to have to tell Monet all about this tomorrow, I knew you were up to something, and I’ve wanted a divorce ever since you started this ritual of theft on the second week of the job, I don’t care what you say, you are a thief, and not deserving of a life with me!” Clémentine shouted, before walking out of the room, and sleeping downstairs.

Jacques gave up on trying to convince her, and the next morning she told Monet all about it, and showed the work to him, yet he was confused, “This is not my work, it looks as if a child drew it,” said Monet. “What? It looks identical to yours, every detail tells the story that you drew it, how could you say such a thing?” said Clémentine.

“You see, Clémentine, all I see with this work is the work of a man who stole my eyes, and my vision, it’s inauthentic, not because it is stolen, but because it is an imitation of me in the worst, and most unflattering way possible, I see not a hint of personality, no emotion. To the common folk this might be beautiful, similar to my work, however, this is nothing but a mockery of me and my estate, and I will make sure of it that Jacques is fired from the job of gardener as soon as possible. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, have a good day.”

Monet finished, before walking back to his work, he was painting while focused on a window showing a backdrop of an ecosystem filled with life, a garden lying on the side of his house, which he had renovated for years, meticulously planned, and created thousands of memories in, he thought about all of this as he laid strokes on the house, with a silent mind, free of the curse of competition.