Claudia’s expensive therapist, Dr. Olivia Bellhop, had recently become rather worried about her, and for very good reason. Over the past few months Claudia has taken up painting and, as her esteemed therapist had noticed, the art Claudia made was very good.

Oh heavens, Dr. Bellhop thought, that’s how you know she’s not all right in the head. No one who makes good art is doing all right in their head.

Dr. Bellhop had practiced cognitive behavioral therapy for 50 years on a slew of awarded musicians, New York Times acclaimed authors, best actors and actresses, and most recently on some very troubled young influencers. She knew exactly what successful people needed and would take appropriate steps to keep them in line. She made very good money and, much to her satisfaction, very bad art.

“Claudia, do you think you should maybe put away your brushes for a while?” Dr. Bellhop suggested in their biweekly session. “I know it may seem innocent, but painting is most unsettling on a young and vulnerable mind like the promising one you have.”

Claudia, being both young and vulnerable, had difficulty understanding the wisdom in that statement. “But I like painting,” she replied with all the innocence of a dove, “it helps me think.”

“There are other ways to think,” Dr. Bellhop said rather sternly. “Painting may feel like a safe and fun way to release some emotions every now and then but I assure you, it is a gateway to much more serious and debilitating coping mechanisms. One day you are a sensible and talented Michelangelo but then you will get bored with the safe stuff and that’s where the pipeline to abstraction starts.”

She lightly touched a tissue to her nose, as if the New York stench had wafted in through the firmly closed windows. “You may think it’s not so bad to dabble with a bit of watercolor or maybe some impressionism, but that won’t be enough. Before you know it, you think you’re Picasso and making Dali look reasonable. Look out there in a modern art museum when you have time. This is the future that awaits all weak-willed artists.”

Dr. Bellhop prided herself in having successfully steered many young people off this dangerous path. Alongside her rich and famous clientele, she saved the troubled children of very rich and famous parents from terrible fates. People sensible enough to have earned millions and billions of dollars never seemed sensible enough to train their offspring to do the same.

They just gave the kids too much freedom, Dr. Bellhop thought. With too much time on their hands and nothing serious to work for, the kids didn’t stand a chance against the allures of drugs, sex, and art.

“But what is wrong with painting modern art?” Dear, sweet Claudia persisted. Dr. Bellhop worried the cognitive-behavioral symptoms may have already started. “Modern art may not look very nice but it’s not like it’s hurting anyone…” Claudia continued.

“That’s exactly where you’re wrong!” Dr. Bellhop cut her off, “Modern art doesn’t affect most of the population but it is wildly harmful to a few troubled souls. Collecting the art is safe. Viewing it in a gallery or museum is unlikely to cause any damage. Even painting it under the careful guidance and tutelage of a reputable institution could leave one unscathed. But to those hapless souls searching for some meaning in their miserable lives, it is the worst imaginable vice.”

She peered over the rim of her glasses, judging the impact her words had on the patient. Claudia, who was frowning down at her hands and fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, was non-repentant.

“Have you ever heard of a stable, happy artist?” Dr. Bellhop continued, “Those few who survive are supported by the fame and success their talent may bring to keep them from falling into depression, but not even the successful are safe. Do you think Van Gough was comforted by his blue period? Do you think Freida was made happier by painting her entrails? And painting isn’t the only danger. By dabbling so recklessly in one art form you could develop a comorbidity. What about Sylvia Plath? Kurt Colbain? Robin Williams? Have you ever met a single happy poet?”

Claudia took it all in. It did make sense. She had always thought of painting as therapeutic, but perhaps it was just another of her many unhealthy coping mechanisms. She didn’t want to end up like one of those poor souls.

Dr. Bellhop adopted her friendliest voice to lock it down, “You have such a promising life ahead of you, with college coming up and that soon-to-be fiance.” 

She winked at Claudia, who giggled girlishly. 

“I am going to prescribe a cold-turkey detox from all dangerous media,” Dr. Bellhop began scribbling on her prescription paper as she spoke, which earned another giggle from Claudia. “I want you to be with your friends right now so it’s ok to go to a movie so long as you stick to the box office and avoid those indie joints and art festivals. You can look at art collections or paintings in people’s homes, but avoid museums and small art shows. I know it’s trendy nowadays to seek out the trilling, undiscovered artist in an off-broadway or a dive bar but for you it is much safer to wait until wiser minds than yours have vetted the work’s suitable for public consumption. Stick to music you might hear at parties or in an elevator. Best to steer clear of Emily Dickens and don’t even LOOK at a Vonnegut novel. Actually,” Dr. Bellhop frowned here, “reading in general is dangerous.” 

 All those underpaid, resentful literature teachers just want to drag everyone else down with them, she thought, and she was quite right. All educators have a malicious tendency to push their students towards very unsettling content. For the most part school boards and parents associations try to keep education suitable for young minds but if one gets too close to a teacher, they may try to distribute some of the harder stuff.

Dr. Bellhop finished with a flourishing signature and theatrically tore off the prescription, holding it up like a prize winning lottery ticket.

From that day on, Claudia followed the prescription from Dr. Bel