The Old Man
He brooded for a while, staring at the newspaper, the old man. He was a painter. His paintings hung on the walls of every great museum of the world. These paintings left every beholder speechless, like they were caught in a time warp. No critic ever criticized his work, for every time they looked at his paintings, they got disposed in such a way that they started to believe that it's a sin to criticize them. They instead idolised the painter and worshiped him, they became his puppets. People of all types admired his paintings, the rich, the poor, the wise, the greedy, the lover of art, the not and what not. There was always a big multitude in front of his every painting. They would gaze at it in silence, there was something Godly about these paintings they thought. They thought, should his name die, it will die with the world. They called him 'God's painter'.
He brooded for a while, staring at the newspaper, the old man. His face was devoid of any sign of happiness, like it had long gone. He looked like he was wearied by life. He looked sad. They knew why, the people, the talkers, the blind lookers. The story had many versions. The story about his son. The son that was colour-blind. The son that was gone now. Some say that he ran away, ashamed to face the old man. Some say that he killed himself, ashamed to live. The most traveled version, the one that they preferred to believe, is that the old man killed his son. The son that couldn't paint.
He brooded for a while, staring at the news paper, the old man. The headline read "Have we found the rightful heir to the God's painter? - Young painter catches the public eye". The old man read the article below. He didn't look impressed. His face bore the same wearied look. The article spoke about a new-found talent that was making news in the country. It said that the young painter is the true heir of God's painter, for like the latter, he came from the ghetto too. It said, the best critics in the country find his paintings modern and yet flawless. It also said that 'God's painter', the old man had nothing to say about the young painter or his paintings, when questioned by the media. The young painter says that he is utterly hurt and disappointed that 'God's painter' had nothing to say about his paintings. He said, "Censure, i can handle, but not inattention". There was a picture of one of his paintings on the newspaper, the old man looked at it, he heaved a sigh and closed his eyes and relapsed into meditation.
The young painter
The young painter, whose paintings the critics acclaimed, was now the cynosure of all eyes and so were his paintings. He was all over the news. Riches came to him. The rich desired his paintings to be hung on the walls of their fashionable houses. They couldn't make head or tail out of his paintings but they were ready to pay anything for it and they did. They claimed that they could understand his paintings. They claimed that his paintings brought in peace and good fortune. They said, "These paintings are divine, straight from the heaven. The old man is too proud to embrace the vernal painter". 'Bloody phonies', thought the old man. But he said nothing, he never said much.
The young painter regarded the white canvas in front of him thoughtfully. He needed to paint, his masterpiece. He dropped the brush that he was holding, he is not going to need it for what he was going to do. He dowsed his hand in paint from a jar and sloshed the dripping hand on the canvas, producing a splodge and tiny spots of paint around it. He dipped his hand in a different jar and sloshed, another splodge. He needed more colors on the canvas, and he supplied. Now, he rubbed the sheet with his palm to smear the colors into one another. His strokes were crude, but crude is what makes a masterpiece he told himself. He daubed some more colors on what was to become the masterpiece.
Word spread that the young painter was painting his masterpiece. In no time, it brought in to the country, the art lovers, the rich and the critics in multitudes. They were eager to get a glimpse of the masterpiece. There were buyers already, that approached the young painter, offering a fortune for that painting. The painter dismissed them all. He said "The painting awaits glory, glory that will last for eternity. But glory, and glory it will be only when bestowed upon by the righteous person, the rightful person, the God's painter. And after that, the painting will be so precious that God couldn't afford it".
The grand gathering
The day arrived, the day on which the masterpiece will be unveiled. The hype had been built and the world was waiting, hoping to get a peek of this glamourous piece. There was a huge crowd in front of the gallery. The huge hall couldn't accommodate the crowd. The people did not mind, they waited outside patiently. They were content, just to witness the grandeur of the gathering. They were content, just to be a part of what will go on to become history. The streets and roads on the other parts of the country were empty. The shops were shut and so were the offices and the schools. The huge hall was occupied mainly by the rich and the ones that could afford it. And of course, there were the critics, in the front.
The painting was there, in the front, on a specially sculpted marble pedestal. The painting was hidden behind the drapery. The young painter was standing next to the painting. He looked elated, but he will wait. The crowd inside the huge hall was a little unsettled. They couldn't wait to see the painting. But, the young painter had to see the old man before he could unveil the painting. He waited patiently, he had all the time in the world. Suddenly, a rustle rippled across the audience. God's painter had come. Many whistled and hooted. He walked to the front. He looked at the young painter gravely and the young painter held his stare for a little, gravely too. The young painter offered the old man the switch to the drapery. They never spoke.
The crowd grew restless and the hoots grew louder. The old man turned to the crowd, he raised his hand gesturing them to calm down. The crowd obeyed. There was utter silence. The old man pushed the switch, the drape slid away to reveal the painting. The crowd witnessed it, there was utter quietness. They couldn't tell what they felt, they were still, unsure if they liked it. But their eyes were glued to the painting. The old man stared at it gravely. He stared for a while. The crowd was still, as though time stood still. The old man turned to the crowd. He still looked grave, the young painter gulped. The old man said
"This is art itself" he paused for it to sink in, and continued "This work of creativity could not have been done by any, other than the greatest." he held the hand of the young painter and hailed it and continued "This hand, is the hand of God. And this man here, the creator of the painting that's nothing short of a genius' work, is God himself" and he smiled at the crowd.
The crowd roared in applause and stood there applauding and cheering for what seemed like infinity. The young painter waved at the crowd triumphantly. The old man stood there smiling. He had to smile, he knew. And he turned to the young painter and the dude looked. They smiled at each other for a bit and the old man offered a hug, with his arms wide open, the old man embraced the painter. The painter held him tight, he was crying, he couldn't stop it and the old man whispered into his ears
"Son, you can never paint. But, what you have painted, and what you will paint, will be painted by every painter to come. Your name will die with the world"
"Thank you father" said the son, tears were rolling down his cheeks. "Thank you father!"
"Anything for my son" said the father.
He brooded for a while, staring at the newspaper, the old man. He was a painter. His paintings hung on the walls of every great museum of the world. These paintings left every beholder speechless, like they were caught in a time warp. No critic ever criticized his work, for every time they looked at his paintings, they got disposed in such a way that they started to believe that it's a sin to criticize them. They instead idolised the painter and worshiped him, they became his puppets. People of all types admired his paintings, the rich, the poor, the wise, the greedy, the lover of art, the not and what not. There was always a big multitude in front of his every painting. They would gaze at it in silence, there was something Godly about these paintings they thought. They thought, should his name die, it will die with the world. They called him 'God's painter'.
He brooded for a while, staring at the newspaper, the old man. His face was devoid of any sign of happiness, like it had long gone. He looked like he was wearied by life. He looked sad. They knew why, the people, the talkers, the blind lookers. The story had many versions. The story about his son. The son that was colour-blind. The son that was gone now. Some say that he ran away, ashamed to face the old man. Some say that he killed himself, ashamed to live. The most traveled version, the one that they preferred to believe, is that the old man killed his son. The son that couldn't paint.
He brooded for a while, staring at the news paper, the old man. The headline read "Have we found the rightful heir to the God's painter? - Young painter catches the public eye". The old man read the article below. He didn't look impressed. His face bore the same wearied look. The article spoke about a new-found talent that was making news in the country. It said that the young painter is the true heir of God's painter, for like the latter, he came from the ghetto too. It said, the best critics in the country find his paintings modern and yet flawless. It also said that 'God's painter', the old man had nothing to say about the young painter or his paintings, when questioned by the media. The young painter says that he is utterly hurt and disappointed that 'God's painter' had nothing to say about his paintings. He said, "Censure, i can handle, but not inattention". There was a picture of one of his paintings on the newspaper, the old man looked at it, he heaved a sigh and closed his eyes and relapsed into meditation.
The young painter
The young painter, whose paintings the critics acclaimed, was now the cynosure of all eyes and so were his paintings. He was all over the news. Riches came to him. The rich desired his paintings to be hung on the walls of their fashionable houses. They couldn't make head or tail out of his paintings but they were ready to pay anything for it and they did. They claimed that they could understand his paintings. They claimed that his paintings brought in peace and good fortune. They said, "These paintings are divine, straight from the heaven. The old man is too proud to embrace the vernal painter". 'Bloody phonies', thought the old man. But he said nothing, he never said much.
The young painter regarded the white canvas in front of him thoughtfully. He needed to paint, his masterpiece. He dropped the brush that he was holding, he is not going to need it for what he was going to do. He dowsed his hand in paint from a jar and sloshed the dripping hand on the canvas, producing a splodge and tiny spots of paint around it. He dipped his hand in a different jar and sloshed, another splodge. He needed more colors on the canvas, and he supplied. Now, he rubbed the sheet with his palm to smear the colors into one another. His strokes were crude, but crude is what makes a masterpiece he told himself. He daubed some more colors on what was to become the masterpiece.
Word spread that the young painter was painting his masterpiece. In no time, it brought in to the country, the art lovers, the rich and the critics in multitudes. They were eager to get a glimpse of the masterpiece. There were buyers already, that approached the young painter, offering a fortune for that painting. The painter dismissed them all. He said "The painting awaits glory, glory that will last for eternity. But glory, and glory it will be only when bestowed upon by the righteous person, the rightful person, the God's painter. And after that, the painting will be so precious that God couldn't afford it".
The grand gathering
The day arrived, the day on which the masterpiece will be unveiled. The hype had been built and the world was waiting, hoping to get a peek of this glamourous piece. There was a huge crowd in front of the gallery. The huge hall couldn't accommodate the crowd. The people did not mind, they waited outside patiently. They were content, just to witness the grandeur of the gathering. They were content, just to be a part of what will go on to become history. The streets and roads on the other parts of the country were empty. The shops were shut and so were the offices and the schools. The huge hall was occupied mainly by the rich and the ones that could afford it. And of course, there were the critics, in the front.
The painting was there, in the front, on a specially sculpted marble pedestal. The painting was hidden behind the drapery. The young painter was standing next to the painting. He looked elated, but he will wait. The crowd inside the huge hall was a little unsettled. They couldn't wait to see the painting. But, the young painter had to see the old man before he could unveil the painting. He waited patiently, he had all the time in the world. Suddenly, a rustle rippled across the audience. God's painter had come. Many whistled and hooted. He walked to the front. He looked at the young painter gravely and the young painter held his stare for a little, gravely too. The young painter offered the old man the switch to the drapery. They never spoke.
The crowd grew restless and the hoots grew louder. The old man turned to the crowd, he raised his hand gesturing them to calm down. The crowd obeyed. There was utter silence. The old man pushed the switch, the drape slid away to reveal the painting. The crowd witnessed it, there was utter quietness. They couldn't tell what they felt, they were still, unsure if they liked it. But their eyes were glued to the painting. The old man stared at it gravely. He stared for a while. The crowd was still, as though time stood still. The old man turned to the crowd. He still looked grave, the young painter gulped. The old man said
"This is art itself" he paused for it to sink in, and continued "This work of creativity could not have been done by any, other than the greatest." he held the hand of the young painter and hailed it and continued "This hand, is the hand of God. And this man here, the creator of the painting that's nothing short of a genius' work, is God himself" and he smiled at the crowd.
The crowd roared in applause and stood there applauding and cheering for what seemed like infinity. The young painter waved at the crowd triumphantly. The old man stood there smiling. He had to smile, he knew. And he turned to the young painter and the dude looked. They smiled at each other for a bit and the old man offered a hug, with his arms wide open, the old man embraced the painter. The painter held him tight, he was crying, he couldn't stop it and the old man whispered into his ears
"Son, you can never paint. But, what you have painted, and what you will paint, will be painted by every painter to come. Your name will die with the world"
"Thank you father" said the son, tears were rolling down his cheeks. "Thank you father!"
"Anything for my son" said the father.
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