Wednesday, September 07, 2011

The blind painter.

A man went to the painters apartment to ask him some questions. On the freshly painted door was the word 'Artist'.
The man entered and asked the painter, 'Why do you use the word artist instead of painter?'
'For there is only one true art, and that is the painting of images. Do you wish your image preserved?'
The man thought for a moment and asked, 'What about sculptures and busts?'
The painter replied, 'There is no real or true sculpture, only carvings in rock. These rock carvers are no artists, they do not understand how to properly preserve an image. They make idols and stones for temples well enough, but they cannot make art. They do not paint.  How can you see colour in a rock? Men who believe in true sculpture are deluded and live in an illusion.'
The man nodded politely and smiled, but not he did not quite agree. He somehow felt restricted by these ideas.
The man crossed the studio and looked at the remarkable detail in the paintings hanging on the wall.
He spoke before he could think better, '...and what of the poet?'
'HA!' said the painter, who looked as if the idea upset him.
Red faced he spat, 'Those fools? They would not recognize art it if was their own mother! They simply mix words and make pretty sounds like birds. They cannot preserve your image, as I can.'
This last thing was true, thought the man.
He agreed to the fee and paid the painter with silver coins.
Afterwards the man observed the painting. It was extremely accurate and absolutely normal looking. It looked as if he had seen it many times before. It looked almost real, but it wasn't.
'Now THAT is art!' Said the painter with pride.
The man gave his thanks, and left.
As he stood in the front of the apartments looking at his painting he wondered to himself.
He could see no fault in the works of the painter. It looked as if he stared into a mirror.
But there was something lacking.
He began to wonder of the painter had somehow missed something.  Something a sculptor may have given form to, or a poet may have felt and sung.
The man looked back to the painters door and the word 'Artist'.
Now that he looked closely he could see that below those words, covered in a coat of fresh paint were older titles. He could not make out much of it, but two words were clear enough to read beneath the pigment.
The man now understood.
The painter was blind.

P. StG.
ad 2011

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