Work Text:
An idea
Every project starts with an idea, every great creation is born from nothing.
Just because others more famous, important or talented haven't had the same idea as you, doesn't mean your idea is bad. Uninteresting.
One's passion for creating shouldn't be restricted to such a simplicity as "good" or "bad". When you live in a world of grey, you can't expect every single one of your creations to be perfect.
You will lose yourself if you let perfectionism dictate your craft.
But mediocrity is the other extreme of the spectrum, and artists often times find themselves lost in one path or another. Black and white. Good or bad.
Michelangelo likes to think of himself as a very grounded artist. He doesn't expect every single one of his pieces to be groundbreaking nor does he think everything he creates is garbage, not deserving of recognition, a waste of talent and skill... that is most of the times.
His pieces are enjoyed by his family, friends and most importantly: himself. He loves creating and lives to do so. His heart beats for the purpose of keeping art alive amongst his family.
Dancing, cooking, drawing; all done with the intention to leave a legacy of creativity behind.
He is a ninja, yes. But there is so much more than what meets the eye.
He is also the dancer.
He is the chef.
He is the painter.
He is the artist.
He is Michelangelo.
And one must live up to one's name.
But when Mikey is met with such a depressing scene, sitting in front of a blank canvas, paint brush in hand and a defeated look on his face, he starts questioning his abilities.
Suddenly, everything he has ever created is trash. Those pieces he loved drawing, suddenly lost in mediocrity.
Those meals he enjoyed cooking, suddenly flavorless and unappetizing.
Those songs he loved dancing to, suddenly turned to be only noise that hammered in his skull.
"They were never good to begin with".
"They didn't want to hurt your feelings, so they lied to you".
"This doesn't live up to their expectations".
"They are expecting you to do something great".
'Why can't you live up to their expectations anymore?'
"The real Michelangelo would be disgusted".
Suddenly, Mikey opened his eyes, shocked by what he had just thought.
Wasn't he the real Michelangelo already? He has always been Michelangelo. He has always lived up to his name.
...Has he not?
And now, Mikey found himself diving into every new media of art he could. He would prove himself worthy of the name.
Sculpting, writing, filming, fashion designing, sewing, knitting, building, playing music, animating and much more, all done for the sake of art.
His brain was finally happy. Not only Michelangelo, but even Leonardo da Vinci himself would be taken aback by how multifaceted a teenage mutant ninja turtle living in the sewers could truly be.
Everyone, every single head would be turned around. The world would be amazed by such an astounding display of abilities. They would finally know his name.
Then why did it still look bad?
His food still tastes like ashes.
His paintings are still mediocre.
His dancing was still amateur.
He lost sleep over this.
He was certainly trying.
Was he just...
...Not trying hard enough?
Michelangelo Buonarroti was dead. A dead man can't give you advice on what you are doing right or wrong. A dead man can't explain to you his creative process and anyone alive who tries to explain it for the master himself would never fully comprehend the complexity of a process so intricate.
The passion for creating.
Mikey has lost that passion. Creating didn't bring him joy anymore; thinking of what he was doing wrong and what he could do next to please everyone around him was sucking the life out of his passion.
Creating became a burden. A chore.
Inspiration didn't speak to him in intricate tongues that only he could hear anymore.
Daydreams no longer presented themselves with an explosion of vivid colors that made his heart jump around his chest with emotion.
New recipes never looked more unappealing, and experimenting with different spices and ingredients sounded like an unnecessary extra step rather than like a culinary adventure.
Music didn't course through his body and mindlessly made him want to resonate to a level so close to his soul that he only wanted to dance and express himself.
It was all just... gone.
The young turtle was now going through his old drawings, fingers tracing the graphite lines that only now looked so vibrant and full of life. Even if his newly found perception of art still yelled at the back of his brain that it was all awful, broken, mediocre, Mikey yearned for the vivid feeling that inspired him to create every single one of those pieces.
At nights, he just cried himself to sleep because the desperation of creating was clouded by the terror mediocrity provoked in him. His fear of failure was greater than his need to try.
No longer able to put his feelings into paper, cook them away or let himself get lost in the music, Mikey found it easier to bottle them up. His emotional outlet no longer good enough to turn to.
Isolating himself from the outside world seemed easier than try and face it, only to realize he was no longer worthy.
No longer worthy of the name.
In his ever-growing desperation for trying to find the joy in creating omce more, Mikey refuses to leave his room, refuses to eat, refuses to sleep. How can he think about that when he has to create a masterpiece?
Running away is for cowards and he is no coward. He fought the Shredder and three Krang, for God's sake! He fought with all his might and won. He is a Hamato. He doesn't take breaks.
He doesn't need them.
After avoiding creating like the plague, he thinks he is finally ready to fight this battle.
He cries, yells, throws stuff around, breaks everything in sight. This is his personal battle to fight and every attempt from his brothers to try and help will be met by an animalistic hiss or a pained scream.
He fights so hard, day and night, all the time, that he forgot what the outside world looked like. Where is his Magnum Opus? Months have passed and he still can't find it.
Now his art looks even worse than before. It's stiff, lifeless. The cartoony concepts of his previous works thrown away in order to pursue the more mature form of art. Realism is what the real Michelangelo would approve of,.
This is what "sacrificing yourself for your art" means.
It's a gruesome spectacle of colorful paint everywhere, a million different sheets of paper scattered around the room, all picturing many different people who share the same sad expression the artist has forever portrayed them with.
Nothing is happy anymore, despite the colorful piece in front of him which tries to break from the constant stream of sadness, there is nothing he is trying to convey anymore. Michelangelo is forcing himself to create for the wrong reasons.
Getting lost in the misery will help you come out of it a better artist than ever, like the Phoenix who always comes back from the ashes.
When will the passion come back, though?
He is done fighting. He is tired. Mediocrity has won the battle and all that is left for him to do is accept his defeat.
He has no desperate driven rage to chase away the people who try to help him anymore, as they never gave up in their goal much like Mikey tried to not give up on his... before failing.
Leonardo walks in without knocking (he is too worried to think about knocking either way) and finds Mikey sitting on the floor, dry paint all over his body and his most recent work fully on display for the world to see.
Mikey braces himself for the hard critique he is about to receive as Leo examines the piece up and down, a low hum that comes from the oldest's throat echoing through the room, breaking the silent spell it was casted into.
Before analyzing everything he needed to, Leonardo sat down next to Mikey with a smile adorning his features, contrasting with the sadness that has eaten Mikey's space alive.
"I like it".
The youngest's previous furrow deepens at this statement. It doesn't feel genuine, somehow.
"Well, I hate it".
Leo's next words, however echo even harder than a simple hum.
"I read somewhere that Michelangelo also hated his art". He didn't turn to see Mikey's reaction to this, letting it sink into the artist's skull for a bit.
There were a few silent seconds before Mikey spoke again; his voice raw from all the screaming and crying.
"...You think it's true?"
At this, Leo just shrugged. That reassuring smile still on his face. "You tell me. You are the artist of the family, right?
If even you can hate what you create, when everyone else seems to love it so much... then I don't think it's impossible".
Maybe there were better words to describe what he has been thinking about day after day; maybe there was more to say, a better way to put it...
But at the time, Mikey could only say one thing.
"I think you guys just say you like my art because you don't wanna hurt my feelings..."
Leo seemed to think about this for a moment, before delivering the final blow. "...Then you really are like Michelangelo".
And now that he said it like that, it didn't sound like such a compliment anymore.
They sat in silence for a little longer, with a clearly satisfied Leo who hadn't talked to his little brother in so long and felt like he just made a huge accomplishment by finally getting through him, even if just a little.
The oldest decided it was enough for today, that he'd come back and keep trying tomorrow and so, as he stood up from his spot and walked over to the door, a distinct voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
"...Did you know the real Michelangelo and Leonardo were rivals? They hated each other".
Leo laughed at this, imagining the improbable scenario of them growing up to be like the artists they got their names from. It made him cackle.
"Good thing we are better than those two, huh?"
Mikey's eyes opened wide by the revelation.
Leo didn't feel the need to "live up to his name". Leonardo da Vinci was an artist, a mathematician, an inventor.
A polymath.
A master.
Such a big name to fulfill.
And yet, his brother Leonardo didn't think about the man's name he carried all that often until reminded.
Even the importance of da Vinci's name was overlooked by not only Leo, but his whole family.
Everyone wanted him to be a good leader, a good brother and a good ninja. Sure.
But, was anyone expecting him to paint the next Vitruvian Man, to invent the next revolutionary conveyance or to dissect a body to fully comprehend how the human anatomy works?
No. Not really.
Then why was Mikey trying to fulfill the expectations no one set for him?
Because being your own worst critique is supposed to be the purpose of an artist. No one can see as many of the imperfections of your work as yourself.
Such is the way of the artist.
The realization this brought to Mikey's head was, as most things in life, gradual.
He still got too caught up, too perfectionist, too worked up over imaginary flaws.
But only time can heal self inflicted wounds and nostalgia is the best creative fuel.
He will always be an artist, even if he stops creating. Art presents itself in many different ways, your passion never truly goes away, it doesn't dictate your capability and more importantly, it will never fully stop a creative mind from creating sooner or later.
To create something that is worth being praised isn't an artist greatest goal. It isn't the only thing they should thrive on.
And, maybe one day, Michelangelo will be able to create again. One day, he will wake up and feel the urge to draw, to cook, to dance.
One day, he will create for himself again.
Until then, the artist rests.
The artist heals.
The artists waits.
With a smile on his face, he allows himself to drift into sleep.
He will come back.
With a burning passion to create once more.