He didn’t seek fame. His creations were for his pleasure alone. In his studio, a crumbling cottage amid the trees, the unknown artist stared at a blank canvas, his mind empty, his thoughts an open space. His inspiration, his trusty muse had deserted him.
Frustration turned to anger and with a blow of his arm, the easel flew across the room smashing a window to smithereens. He trampled over reams of ripped paper, torn canvases and crumpled paint tubes, then crouched in a corner, head resting upon his knees, and wept.
Through the crisscross lead of the broken window, a sunray penetrated the gloom and caressed his weary hand. He looked up to see shadows flickering upon the peeling walls. They danced, they tripped and spun. Then the awful silence was broken as a bird landed on a nearby branch and whistled a merry tune.
He unfurled his aching body, then righted his easel and grasped an unused canvas from the heap on the floor. He adorned his palette with paints and with a flick of his wrist a picture began to form. Then another, and another then more.
It was years before the studio was discovered. A glimpse of heaven one reporter wrote. Inspirational said another. Nobody knew who the artist was or where he’d ended his days. Not a name, not a signature, not a single clue.
The picture is from Aron Jäger@unsplash.com