The basement is my true home. I don’t sleep here, admittedly, and to use the toilet I have to go upstairs, but this is where I spend my most important time. My time.
I’ve liked the basement for as long as I can remember. I fell in love with this place when I was four years old and my father took me downstairs to mold a plaster turtle piggy bank. Since then, the smell and the light of the basement have always been associated with a good mood.
It doesn’t matter that I mostly escape here now just to avoid hearing his screams. I don’t remember if it was always this way, but these days, my father is associated with nothing but arguments. And so is my mother.
There is no one in the basement. Even if there were, they would probably still speak to me kindly here, saving the carnage for upstairs. There is something strange about how people feel as if they are in an isolation ward within their own four walls. As if no one could possibly know what happens behind the door. I feel most ashamed before the neighbors, that they have to be part of this. But I don’t worry about it excessively—at least they get free entertainment.
Yes. The basement is a good place.
I’ve been coming here often lately, because drawing and watercolors don’t captivate me as they once did. I wanted to paint seriously. As one might guess, painting with oils at home couldn’t have ended in anything but an argument. Until the end of my days, I will be haunted by the sound of my father sharply inhaling air. It is the overture to an opera called “The Argument”. A prelude to the question: “Who made such a stench in here?” After that, there was only a series of abstract screams. I understand it, in a way; oil painting can be demanding for those who don’t paint. Refusing to give up, I moved my muse to the basement.
The basement has its downsides. First of all—it is truly dark. Setting aside the fact that painting in oils under artificial light is a task for a psychopath, the lighting is simply tragic. With only one extra lamp to help me, I am condemned to blind spots on the canvas. Another thing is that when a person doesn’t move much, it can get truly cold down here.
I thought about feeding Mr. Gloom more often while I paint—to use his body temperature like a space heater. I won’t lie, feeding him is hard work, so I gave up on that idea quickly. So I paint essentially in the dark and cold. I wonder how long I can last like this. I can already feel it in my bones: I’ve had enough.
When fatigue hits me, I crouch next to Mr. Gloom. I imagine us holding hands. Technically, it would be possible, but those stumps of his are so disgusting that in practice, there isn’t a shred of romance in it. I might as well be holding a plucked chicken by its wing. It’s one of his very few flaws, so I try not to hold it against him. After all, he doesn’t nitpick me either, and I’m sure he could find a few reasons.
The Golden Ratio of Human Resources, 20×30 cm, mixed media, 2026