The writing on the wall read “You will fail”, an ominous prophecy at best. The picture was in a severe black frame, and the viewers looked at it with amusement. Failure; how avant-garde.

The artist shifted back and forth edgily. It was rather like watching a group of vultures circle his sleeping children. Every move he made was wrought with self-consciousness. Did he get the point across? Was his work too plain?

The guests shuffled out after inadequate looks around the room. “Nice job, dear.” “Maybe you should try something a little lighter. It can’t be healthy to think about such things all the time.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be-” he began to stutter. No use. “Thanks for coming,” he murmured. They didn’t get it.

And as he sank into the painfully plain chair in the center of the stark, white room, he seemed to be a picture of failure himself.