The artist (standard:drama, 388 words)
Author: jopoguerrero	Added: Mar 22 2008	Views/Reads: 3516/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Careless parents

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. 


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