The Artist

The Artist was in one of his trances.

Physically, he was on the ground. But he was levitating, like heated air bidding farewell to the ground, he was rising; up, up, up, and into those realms of ecstatic excellence reserved uniquely for the minds blessed to transgress the thin line separating the good from great. He was oblivious to everything but that nebulous outline of a magnificent portrait; hiding like a picturesque scenery under the early morning mist.Like a predator intent on his prey, his focus sharpened; his soul sensed surreal shadows starting to shape into sublime symbols stimulating scintillating somatic sketches. His hands picked up the brush, involuntarily, and started working. His eyes were half-closed, but the guiding eye was wide open, the one that was signaling his hands, radiating abstract guiding signals; seemingly received from a sentient almighty summoned by the artist.

The hand picked up pace.

There were no extraneous lines,no unwanted features, and nothing looked unwarranted. The brush danced, and danced like a slender ballerina. Every stroke a syllable, every feature a word, creating a harmonious song for the ballerina's beautiful act. Time seemed to stop to watch the marvel; the picture slowly emerged from the hazy chambers of the artist's brain, to be frozen into eternity on a piece of papyrus. Slowly the picture neared its completion: with the artist's hands deciphering the divine code; triggered by a trance that flooded his senses- causing an overflow, an out pour, an ethereal flood escaping through the brush strokes. The strokes reached a crescendo, the hand moved with furious intensity indicating a climax, the artist vibrated with feverish exuberance, his whole body swayed synchronously with a transcendental symphony; composed and conducted by him; a symphony that was his and his alone.

And, as abruptly as it began, the hand stopped. The artist collapsed onto the floor.

He looked at the result. With eyes effusing affection; like a mother looking at her new born baby; he looked at his piece of art. There was no expectation, no sense of achievement, nor was there a greedy knowledge of praises to come. There was only pure, unadulterated love. A joyous feeling that enthused him, filling an empty cup, his artistry, to the brim, pushing him over the limits into the realms of the hitherto unseen beauty, looked back. Two sparkling eyes, laughing at his awe-struck countenance, secretly staring back at him; serene smile, gracing the flowery arches that were lips; pathways to heaven, thin strands of hair covering the left cheek, and a sloping nose that gave way to a vast area where you could get lost easily: the forehead half covered with hair.

He had no idea how long he sat staring at it. Everything seemed to be frozen; like the picture. Slowly, he stood up. With a sense of anti-climax, he gathered his wits, and removed the picture from the mantel.

He would always like this picture. Look at it in awe. But, this was his picture, and his picture alone. People might praise it, pay him huge amounts, but they would never be able to admire it the way he did. They can never understand the wonderful emotions; the heightened sense of beauty, the abstract admiration that resulted in the picture. They might concur with him in his opinions on the artwork, and would want to know his inspiration, his motivation for this fantastic work; a facsimile of his soul. That's what it is- a facsimile of his soul, and you can never explain you soul to anyone. It is yours.

He removed the picture from the mantel, and slowly walked towards the locked door to his left.

A Facsimile of his soul. He wouldn't bare his soul to anyone. That's a dangerous proposition; neither for money nor fame. Admiration without understanding is a dangerous proposition. A precious soul in the hands of an empty mind leads to torture, unimaginable. With every praise on his work, his soul would get tarnished. With every observation on his piece, the soul would break into pieces. An innocent soul is pure, extremely sensitive. People might be mesmerized by it, but let them touch it and it gets smeared; it isn't pristine anymore. It is an instrument playing divine music. Every body would want to own it. In the hands of many, the music would lose its divinity. They have to find their own instrument. No, the painting stays where it should.

He approached the door. Unlocked it, and placed the portrait in the center of the room.

A facsimile of his soul. He looked at her, with eyes full of himself. She looked back at him, with sparkling eyes full of herself. His portrait was full of him. No one would ever understand it. Everyone has their own soul-stirring piece of work; one that would never be completely understood by anyone else. By a quirk of fate, he found his. Being an artist, he gave it a shape.

Unknowingly, he found an answer to the eternal question troubling the conscience from its dawn. He found an answer to what life is. He found the work that would portray his soul, and he was content with locking it in his personal room.

A room that is his body.