|The artist (standard:drama, 388 words)|
|Author: jopoguerrero||Added: Mar 22 2008||Views/Reads: 1942/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
The artist “What really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside.” - Paulo Coelho, Like the Flowing River I was in a sari-sari store, enjoying my usual round of beer before heading home, when I saw our village drunkard bend over a table in a corner. He was furiously doodling something on a piece of paper, pausing only to take a swig from a bottle of gin. I peered over his shoulder and I was amazed of what I saw. A masterpiece. A perfect pencil drawing of a still life – cracked glass beside a broken bottle of beer. The drawing looked like an exact black-and-white version of the actual things. “That's really great!” my voice went off uncontrollably. He made an impish smile. “You think so?” “Yes,” I answered. “You have an amazing talent. You can make heaps of cash with that!” “Aw shucks! You're just kidding me, right?” he blushed. “I'm just a bum. A big filthy bum who is only good at downing gobs of alcohol.” “But, look at your work,” I insisted. “It's not a bum's squiggle. It's a masterpiece. Don't let your talent go to waste.” His face saddened. “Thanks, but it's too late for that. I'm a now a complete waste.” His answer somewhat irritated me. “Forgive me, friend. But was there a shortage of inspiration from your parents? Did they fail to recognize your passion?” “On the contrary, my friend,” he smiled. “I received a deluge of challenges, motivations and inspirations from my oldies when I was young - from materials to models. Quality arts sets. Collections of William Bouguereau of France. Expressionism and cubism from Marc Chegall of Russia. Surrealism from Salvador Dali of Spain. Realism from Leonardo Da Vinci of Italy. ‘Oh, I love his The Virgin on the Rocks. Real nice!' Primitive style from Paul Klee of Switzerland. And even Fauvism from Henri Matisse of France.” His enumeration immediately convinced me that he knew a lot about art. It puzzled me more. “Then, how come the wine defeated the art, my friend?” He looked at his pencil drawing carefully, almost lovingly. Then he madly crumpled it. “Well, my friend...My parents were so busy shoving challenges, motivations and inspirations to me that they totally forgot about me.” He finished his drink, and walked away. Tweet
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