Parable about vocation

Wonderful and touching parable about the vocation of Elfiki. Let the magic often enters into our lives!


He became an artist just because after school we had somewhere to do. He knew that the work should be fun, and he loved to paint - and the choice was made: he enrolled in art school.

By that time, he already knew that the image of objects is called a still life, nature - landscape, people - portrait, and much more aware of the area chosen profession. Now he had to find out more. "To improvise, you first need to learn how to play the notes - announced at the introductory lecture impressive teacher, well-known artist. - So get ready, we will start from scratch ยป.

He started to learn to "play the notes." Cube, sphere, vase ... Light shade, partial shade ... Setting the hands, perspective, composition ... He's learned a lot - how to tighten the canvas and to cook ground as artificially aged fabrics and how to achieve subtle color transitions ... The teachers praised him, and once he even heard from his mentor: "You're an artist from God!". "Did the other - not from God?" - He thought, though, that to hide, it was nice.

But here's the fun college years are behind us, and now in his pocket was a graduate art education, and he knew a lot more he could, he picked up the knowledge and experience, and it was time to start giving. But ... Something had gone wrong.

No, not that he was not going on. It is not that the profession has ceased to please. Maybe he just grew up and saw what had not noticed before. And that's what was revealed to him: Circle seething life in which art has become a commodity, prosper and not necessarily the one who had something to say to the world - rather the one who was able to competently serve and sell their works, at the right time, right place , with the right people. He, unfortunately, this not learned. He saw his comrades rushing around looking for themselves and their place in the sun, and some in the throws of "broken" loose orientation, degraded ... He knew that the creators often ahead of their time, and their paintings have received recognition and a good price only after death but this knowledge is little consolation.

He got a job that pays well, all day developed design all kinds of fliers, brochures, and even benefit from it some satisfaction, but painted less and reluctantly. Inspiration comes less and less. Work, home, television, routine ... It is increasingly visited thought: "Is this my vocation? I dreamed about how to live my life like this, "dotted line", as if this pencil sketch? When I begin to write their own picture of life? And if you even start - can you? But what about the "artist of God '?". He realized that he was losing skills that turns into a zombie that every day carries a set of specific actions, and it bothered him.

In order not to go crazy with these thoughts, he began to go on the weekends with his easel into the alley of the Masters, which were rows of any artists, craftsmen. Knitted shawls and handicrafts made of birch bark and jewelry made of beads and patchwork bedspreads, clay toys and wicker baskets - what is there just was not there! And fellow artists, too, stood with his incorruptible canvases in large quantities. And there was a competition ...

But he spat on the competition, he just wanted to do ... He painted portraits to order. Paper, pencil, ten minutes - and the portrait is ready. Nothing complicated for a professional - and there are only required to be able to notice the details, respect the proportions so slightly flatter the customer, so just a little spice nature. He did it expertly, his portraits of people like them. And it looks like, and beautifully, better than life. Through his frequent and heartily.

Now life has become somehow more cheerful, but he clearly understood that this is "the depiction of" vocation call would be somehow ... too much. However, it is better than nothing.

Once he made another portrait, he posed for him long-nosed elderly aunt and had to work hard to "make nice." The nose, of course, not going anywhere, but it was in her face something condusive (purity, or what?), That's it he emphasized. It turned out good.

- Finish - he said, holding a portrait of her aunt. She studied him for a long time, then I looked up at him, and he even blinked - before she looked at him closely watched.

- Is there something wrong? - Even he asked, lost sight of her.

- You call, - the woman said. - Can you see the depth ...

- Yeah, eyes, X-ray, - he joked.

- Not - she shook her head. - You draw like soul ... So I look and see: actually I am, as you have drawn. And all that from the outside - it is superficial. You like the top layer of paint was removed, and under it - a masterpiece. And this masterpiece - I. Now I know! Thank you.

- Yes, please - he muttered sheepishly, taking the bill - his usual fee for the blitz portrait.

The aunt was, to be sure, the country. It is necessary, "the soul of paint!" Although who knows what he drew? Maybe the soul ... After all, everyone has some kind of external layer is the invisible husks, which sticks in the process of life. And nature is something everyone has been conceived as a masterpiece, so in this he is as an artist was just sure!

Now his painting filled with some new meaning. There is nothing new in the technology he was not brought - the same paper and pencil, the same ten minutes, just his thoughts kept returning to the fact that we must be tried and "remove the top layer of paint" to out from under him freed unknown "masterpiece ". It seems to get. He liked to watch the first reaction of "nature" - very interesting were the faces of people.

Sometimes he came across such a "model" in which the soul was much worse than the "outer layer", then he tried to discover in it some bright spots, and strengthened them. You can always find a bright spot, if you configure this vision. At least, he had never met the man in whom there would be nothing good.

- Hey, bro! - Once I said to him burly in black jacket. - Do you remember this ... whether my mother in law ... drew last weekend.

Mother in law, he remembered the old toad like her daughter - grow old, a rat will, and with them was a burly, exactly. He then had to bend all your imagination to turn a frog into something acceptable, to see in it anything good.

- Well? - He asked cautiously, not knowing which tends stalwart.

- So this is it ... changed. In a good way. How to look at the portrait - the person becomes. And so, between us, as I know it, toad toad ...

The artist involuntarily snorted not wrong, then, just to see ...

- Well so I wanted to ask you: can it draw in oil? To probably already! Secure effect, therefore the price ... do not fast, do not hesitate!

- And why not fix? It is possible and in oil, and pickled, and sauce "mayonnaise". Just do not paint with oil, and write.

- In-in! Prove it in the best possible way, all paid on the highest level!

The artist was fun. Right "Portrait of Dorian Gray", but with a plus! And once the offer - why not try it?

Tried wrote. Mother-in-law were satisfied, burly, too, and his wife, Zhabina daughter demanded that it also captured the ages. Envy, perhaps. Artist and then rasstaralsya, inspiration came over him - reinforced component added softness, kindness highlighted ... No woman has turned - the Queen!

Looks like stalwart was a man of wide soul and impressions in his circle shared. Orders fell one after another. The rumor went about the artist, his portraits are beneficial to life: in families, peace reigns, ugly prettier, a single mother suddenly get married, have increased the potency of men.

Now was not the time to go on the weekends in the alley of the Masters, and left his office without any regret. Worked at home by the customers, the people were all rich, paid generously, passed from hand to hand. And enough for the paint and the canvas and black caviar, even on weekdays. The apartments are sold and bought more, but with room for workshop repairs well done. It would seem, what more could you want? And he again began to visit the idea: Is this his calling - to paint all sorts of "frogs" and "rats", struggling to find in them anything light? No, it is, of course, good, and useful for the world, but all the same, all the same ... It was not on his mind calm, like she called him somewhere, asked for something, but what? I could not hear.

Once he was irresistibly drawn to drink. This is how to take - and drabadan to cut and then did not remember anything. The idea frightened him: he knew how quickly people get creative on this route dashing down to the bottom, and did not want to repeat their path. We had to do something, and he did the first thing that came to mind: canceled all its sessions, grabbed an easel and folding chair and went back to the alley Masters. Immediately I began to work feverishly - sketch streets, people park across the street. It seems to feel better by releasing ...

- Excuse me, do you draw the portraits? So that immediately, immediately get - he was asked. He looked up - next woman, young, and his eyes were clumsy, like a sob. Probably she died in her someone or some grief ...

- I draw. Ten minutes - and ready. You want to order a portrait?

- No. Dochkin.

Then he saw his daughter - choked, coughed. A child of six years old was similar to inoplanetyanchika: despite a fine warm day, packed in a gray suit, and do not understand even a boy or girl on the head - thick cap-cap on his face - a transparent mask and eye ... Eyes old man who experienced lots of pain and ready to die. Death to them was, in those eyes, that's what he clearly saw.

He did not ask anything else. Such children he saw on television, and knew that the child is likely, cancer, radiology, immunity to zero - then the mask and that the chances of survival - at least. It is not known why or how he knew, but somehow was sure. The trained eye of the artist, to notice all the details ... He glanced at his mother - yes, that's right, she knew. Internally ready. Probably wanted a portrait, because the last. That though the memory was ...

- Sit down, princess, now I'll draw you - he said the girl-alien. - Just look, do not fidget or jump off, and that will not work.

The girl was hardly able to spin or jump, she moved cautiously, as if afraid that her body will crumble from the careless movement, smashed into small pieces. Sela, folded her hands in her lap, staring at him with eyes of the wise turtle Tortilla, and patiently stopped. Perhaps his childhood in hospitals, and there patience is produced quickly without it you will not survive.

He tensed, trying to see her soul, but something prevented - not the shapeless overalls, not tears, not knowing that the old methods will not work here, you need a fundamentally new, non-trivial solution. And it was found! Suddenly the thought: "And what it could be, if not a disease? Not stupid suit and dress, not a cap on his bald Golovenko and bows? ". Imagination worked hand itself has become something sketching on paper, the process has begun.

This time he worked not as usual. Brains in the process is not exactly involved, they are disabled, and include something else. Perhaps the soul. He painted the soul, as if this could be the last portrait is not for girls, and for him personally. As if he was going to die from an incurable disease, and the time was just a little bit, maybe, the same ten minutes.

- Finish - he tore a sheet of paper from the easel. - Look how beautiful you are!

My daughter and my mother looked at the portrait. But it was not really a portrait and not entirely "from life." It curly blond girl in a summer sarafan run with the ball in summer meadow. Under the feet of grass and flowers on his head - the sun and butterflies, smile from ear to ear, and energy - more than enough. Although the portrait was drawn in pencil, for some reason, he seemed to be made in the color of the grass - green, sky - blue ball - orange and sarafanchik - Red white peas.

- I did this? - Came the muffled from under the mask.

- This, this, - assured her an artist. - So now, maybe not so, but soon will be. This is a portrait of the next summer. One to one, more photos.

Her mother bit her lip, staring somewhere past the portrait. Looks held last strength.

- Thank you. Thank you, - she said, and her voice sounded as dull, as if it, too, was an invisible mask. - How much do I owe you?

- Present - dismissed the artist. - What's your name, princess?

- Anya ...

He put his signature on the portrait and the name "Anya". And the date - the number of current and next year.

- Hold! The next summer, I'll wait. Come definitely!

Mom took her portrait in her purse, grabbed the child and quickly walked away. It can be understood - perhaps she was hurt because she knew that next summer will not be. But he did not know anything, did not want to know! And he immediately began sketching picture - summer, Lane Masters, here he sits, but the alley fit two - happy laughing woman and curly girl with a ball in his hands. He enthusiastically created a new reality, he liked the fact that it turns out. Very realistic way out! And, the year of write - the next one! To miracle knew when he was!

- Create the future? - With interest I asked someone quietly approached from behind.

He turned around - there was a dazzling beauty, all so that you do not know what to call it. Angel, maybe? Only here the nose, perhaps, longish ...

- Learn? - Smiling woman angel. - Once you have created my future. Now - that's the future of this girl. You are a true Creator! Thanks ...

- Yes, what I the creator? - Escaped him. - So, amateur artist, frustrated genius ... It was said that I have a talent from God, and I ... Malyuyu sly, small things, all trying to figure out what my calling.

- And you still do not understand? - Raised her eyebrows female angel. - You can change the reality. Or you are not calling?

- I? To change reality? But is it possible?

- Why not? To do this, not so much! I love for people. Talent. The power of faith. Actually, everything. And that you have. Look at me - it all started with you! Who was I? And who I am now?

She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder - as if dusted wings, smiled and walked.

- Who are you now? - Belatedly he called after her.

- Angel! - She turned to go. - Thank you, Creator!

... It can still be seen in the alley of the Masters. An old easel, folding chair, suitcase with art supplies, large umbrella ... it is always foremost, legends about him passed from mouth to mouth. It is said that he sees a man that is hidden deep within, and can paint the future. And not just paint - change for the better. It is said also that he had saved a lot of sick children, moving them in the figures in a different reality. He has disciples, and some have adopted his magic gift and also can change the world. The most prominent among them curly blond girl of about fourteen, she is able to take pictures through the most severe pain, because he feels the pain of others as their own.

And he teaches and paints, draws ... Nobody knows his name, everyone calls it simply - the Creator. Well, here is a man calling ...

Author - Elfika


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