The Painter

On a lonely little hilltop there’s an old wooden house, occupied by a once famous painter, known by many as the lonely painter. Living a life of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

For the painter spring is the most beautiful time of the year, a time for new beginnings and a celebration of life. 

Every morning at sunrise he awakes at the first sound of bird’s song, nature’s alarm clock he says. He takes his time in the morning, each step well thought through, he never used to be like this, the idea of routine as you get older is your safety net or maybe even a comfort you cannot go without.

He starts each morning by washing his face with warm water and little bit of soap, some days he waits a little bit longer for the water to reach his desired temperature, but he has learnt never to grow impatient or angry, once you have reach his age all you have is time, never knowing if time is your friend or enemy, a riddle he could never fathom.

After breakfast he carefully gathers his things for the day and ticks it off on a list as he goes on. He has learnt his lesson from past experiences of always leaving things behind and only come to realize it when it was too late. There is nothing worse than arriving at your destination realizing that you have forgotten the most important thing.

Today was somewhat different; he had an ache in his chest that was unusual and somewhat frightening. Assuring himself that it was probably just his imagination he slowly starts walking away from his home.

Each day he chooses a new location, what fun would it be to go to the same place everyday, but today he wanted to walk a bit further, maybe it will help ease his troubled chest -pain and worrying mind.

Always take the road less travelled by he believes, that will make the difference in the end. Never wonder too far, always remember where home is. Many people in the past have asked him what he would do if he forgets where his house is, he then always reply with the same answer, always count your steps and if you loose count then just keep on walking, nothing was ever achieved by standing still, you just have to keep on moving.

After walking for about an hour or maybe even more, he finally decided to stop. Surrounded by the most beautiful arrangement of wild flowers for as far as the eye could see, he knew he has found his home for the day. He slowly starts to unpack his easel, paintbrushes and oil tubes of all spectrums of colors imaginable.  

Why don’t you just take a photograph many people would ask?  He would look somewhat surprised but perplexed by the question, he would always answer any questions, no matter how bizarre it may seem. A painter uses emotion and will put that into his painting, every brush stroke is carefully planned; every color used is a part of the painter’s life, inner desires, hopes, thoughts, dreams and many times deep self- reflections. To a painter a leaf for example is so much more than just a leaf as the ordinary person would know it as, but for a painter a leaf represents form, texture, smell, and a play of contrasts and a fantasy of colors, a rare beauty that can only be seen with the naked eye and no amount of words will ever be able to describe it, a painting remains priceless for many years, being passed on from one generation to the next, only increasing in value, but a photograph should never be compared to a painting.

As he starts mixing his colors he notices a movement out of the corner of his eye, he must be more ill than he thought he was. A woman came from nowhere and was walking through the field of flowers not too far away. Memorized by her elegance and grace his eyes soon fills up with tears as he remains his fixed gaze, of such beauty no poet has ever written and no writer could ever put in words. She walks with arms outstretched and with her fingertips softly running over the flowers as she flows effortlessly by, a sweet symphony unfolds as she walks, each flower left swaying from side to side as she walks, mixing in colors as if its at will of the artist’s hand.

He quickly starts to paint, feeling a rush of emotions building up inside of him, a smile appears from ear to ear. How can he begin to compare her to this beautiful spring day, she is more lovely than a million sunsets and more radiant than any sunrise.

As she walks she dreams of endless summer days, of Van Gogh’s Irises and sunflower paintings, a Beethoven’s symphony unfolds as the flowers spring into bloom, bursting with fragrance and color.

Its time for the old man to pack-up, counting aloud his steps as he walks hesitantly back to his house on the hilltop, but he cannot help not to think of her, an unforgettable moment like that inspired a priceless work of art, his best painting thus far.

He holds the painting at eye level, tilts his head slightly to the side and smiles; a feeling of joy and overwhelming satisfaction warms him up from the inside out. He climbs into bed and slowly slips away, the memory of his last painting will forever remain with him…in heaven.