Who among us does not know of the majestic city of D--, with its magnificent spires, resplendent bridges and bejewelled facades? Its galleries and museums are world renowned, with their extravagant collections, artefacts from all corners of the earth, pieces both ancient and contemporary. And who has not heard of its thriving and vibrant art scene: writers, poets and painters, protected by patrons, creating work of beauty, wit and creativity, lauded and supported by all its citizens? Indeed, the city is legendary.
And yet, how few have heard the story of its once most famous artist? This story has been lost, hidden by those who did not wish to hear it, faded into obscurity, admonished to corners and told only in whispers. It begins with a painting, some say the artist's finest, although they are wrong. The painting is of a spire, the tallest in the city, and it hangs in the front hall of the central gallery. It is rendered in oils, but it is overlaid with gold and silver leaf. A woman's face is obliquely visible, painted into the sky and merged into the masonry of the building, half there and not, like a ghost, a soul to the structure. They say it was painted for the architect's wife, a tribute to her for suffering so adroitly while the building was being constructed, for stalwartly supporting a man whose vision and dream was constructing the tallest tower in the city. They say the artist was in love with her, but no one is certain. It is clear that the architect was not pleased by the work and petitioned the gallery owner to destroy it, but people are fond of soap opera. The woman, for her part, denied any connection and continued to support her husband.
The artist's next piece was a sculpture, a miniature tower, placed at the base of a urinal. This the gallery owner did refuse to exhibit, so the artist exhibited it himself, in the gallery's ground floor toilet. The piece was removed after only three weeks.
The artist left the city at this time, never to return, and that, for many, is the end of the story. But, it is interesting to know what became of the artist, for this is where the real story begins.
The artist had grown tired of the superficiality of the city. Though art was respected, it was on purely aesthetic grounds. The work being created lacked meaning and depth, more artifice than art, worlds reflecting worlds, speaking of nothing but commercial exuberance, devoid of truth and importance. In this world, the artist could not create; he was artistically bankrupt, with his puerile offerings to his dissenting muse.
For a while he travelled, lost in his thoughts, penitent, morose and sorry for himself. He journeyed to many of the world's most splendid destinations, to lands that were home to Earth's original wonders, to the birth sites of culture and civilisation, but he saw none of it.
His eyes weren't worthy to see, his mind unworthy to understand.
He grew thin, hardly bothering to feed himself. His fine clothes became worn and tattered. His shoulders stooped and his head grew comfortable with its downward gaze. He sat alone in public houses, wallowing in his self-indulgent funk. He had no destination.
One day, by chance, he heard a group of men discussing the state of the world. They were talking of chaos in a nearby land. A despotic tyrant had taken the throne. The country was in turmoil. Taxes had been raised, farmlands decimated in a show of power, wilfully laid bare despite their fertile acres. People could not afford to eat. There was talk of rebellion, but it was quiet and restrained; any who opposed the tyrant were executed, their lifeless bodies cut limb from limb and hung in roadways, their feet sliced lengthways and sideways, the bones exposed and broken, a warning to others who might follow in their footsteps.
The artist listened in rapture, a thought forming in his mind. Here was a land in suffering, a land without hope. He would go to this land and create for the rebels, draw them to strength and solidarity, paint their plight and inspire them to victory. In this land, he would create art that was truly meaningful. He gathered his possessions and resolved to leave immediately.
He travelled for several days, somehow more exuberant than he had felt in a very long time. He walked with purpose, head held high, once again able to see.
The land he found was truly sorrowful. The air was dark with smoke and ash. Everywhere he looked the earth was scarred. The people he saw looked frightened and despondent, finding shelter where they could, men, women and children, young and old, huddled together in shanty structures, begging for scraps, or fighting among themselves, lawless, desperate, stealing, killing each other for food. Here was the barest semblance of civilisation, something verging on anarchy, people pushed to the edges of their humanity. The stench was nauseating. The town lacked running water, inhabitants unable to bathe, trapped among waste and death. It was far worse than the artist had imagined.
The scene was all the sadder for the hints of what had been lost. This had clearly been a place of great pastoral beauty. As he wandered around, the artist was struck by the rustic structures, a rough brick fireplace or a carved wooden door. And off in the distance a castle, home to the tyrant and a reminder of the inequality of oppression.
Locating the rebels proved harder than anticipated. Few people would talk. They distrusted the artist, a foreigner, a stranger. Those that would speak had little to say; some had lost their minds, driven mad by hunger and homelessness; others knew too little, vague recollections of half caught conversations, whispered suggestions of meetings long passed. Still, the artist was persistent. He was convicted in his belief. He knew that he could help, offer something with his art. What little food he had brought for his journey, he shared in a gesture of solidarity. He began to win people over with his earnestness.
When the food was gone, he continued to petition, more proof in mutual hunger, and finally he met someone who was willing to talk, who knew where the rebels would meet.
The artist was blindfolded and escorted in circles. Disorientated, he was taken to a room. His blindfold was removed and he was left to sit alone. The room was dark, empty but for a single wooden bench. The room had no windows. It was lit by a single candle. He could hear the sound of voices from behind the door. The conversation seemed heated, but he could not make out the words.
After a time the door was opened. The man who entered looked grave. He was tired and hungry, like the others. He looked determined, serious. He stood in front of the artist, stared at him. Presently, he spoke. We cannot know exactly what was said, but we can imagine it was this:
"They say you are an artist, that you have come here to paint."
"I want to help you, to paint pictures to unite you, to inspire you to victory."
"I see."
"I want to show you who you are, to reflect your suffering, so you might transcend it, to paint over your wounds with images of a better life, so you might find strength in your future."
"I am not sure I understand."
"The world around you is unfair. You live like dogs. It is inhumane and cruel that your lives should be this way. No man should live like this. I offer my support."
"I am not a stupid man."
"I know."
"And surely I can understand the importance of rhetoric."
"I am an artist."
"But we have no need for the art which you describe. Our cause is just. We are united in our belief. Yes, we are weak. We have no food. But we do not need your pictures to tell us what must be done. The pictures will not help. If you want to do something of value, if you truly want to help, then pick up a sword."
"But, I am an artist."
"If you truly want to help, show your solidarity with your blood."
The man walked out and others entered. The artist was blindfolded once more. He was dragged into the streets and cast upon them.
He lay there for a while, dejected, disillusioned, unwilling to stand. Finally, it was his hunger that drove him to his feet. He wandered the streets, looking for something to eat, begging for food.
What happened next is not clear. We know that the artist, in his hunger and despair, rejected by those around him, dismissed by the rebels, made his way to the castle. We can speculate that his desperate mind, unwilling to die on the streets, could conceive no other option than to throw himself upon the mercy of the tyrant. It is romantic to imagine him, collapsed at the gates, too weak to speak, using the last of his energy to create an artwork, abstract and strange, scratched out with his fingers in the dirt, a final plea for salvation.
We know that someone found him, perhaps a guard, perhaps a returning diplomat, perhaps one of the tyrant's daughters. Perhaps it was the tyrant himself. It does not matter. He was taken inside.
And there he was fed. He was washed and given a change of clothes. Perhaps he was lucky; surely he was fortunate at that moment. It is possible that the tyrant, or a member of his court had recognised the artist as he lay there. They recognised him eventually.
The tyrant had a varied and extensive art collection, pieces from many places, work of quality and expense. Some of the artist's work was among it. Did the artist point this out?
Or was it the tyrant who showed the artist?
One way or another a bargain was struck; the artist would stay with the tyrant and paint for him, portraits, artworks, commissions. If the artist did this reluctantly, we cannot be sure.
In his time with the tyrant, the artist painted many pictures. Portraits of the man, of his family, of the land in which they lived. The portraits were flattering, the landscapes romantic. Yet, each of the scenes was imbued with sadness, something more than melancholic, something essential and uncanny. It was in the colours, in the turn of a lip, the distance of a stare. You felt it when you looked at them. You couldn't help it. You felt loss.
How much time did the tyrant spend with these pictures? What was his frame of mind?
What conversations did he have with the artist during this time? We do not know. The pictures were hung on many of the castle walls.
Some many months after the artist's arrival at the castle, the rebels planned a raid. The morning of the attack, a spy was found in their ranks. The spy was tortured, but refused to talk. It was unclear what information had been leaked. Regardless, too much preparation had gone into planning and the attack went ahead.
Much to their surprise, the rebels met with very little resistance. They stormed the castle with marginal force. The tyrant's army seemed unprepared. Perhaps the spy had not passed on the information? Many of the guards simply acquiesced, claimed affinity with the rebels' cause, and were taken into custody. The tyrant and his family were found and they were executed on the spot, without opportunity to confess. In the eyes of the rebel leader, no trial was necessary.
During the raid, the artist was found and brought before the leader. He recognized the artist immediately.
"Why are you here," the leader asked.
The artist stood still. He did not speak.
"You are a traitor," said the the rebel leader. "A turn-coat and a sycophant."
The artist did not move. He said nothing.
"You are guilty," said the leader, self-righteous and angry, "And for this you will be punished."
The artist remained still.
The rebel leader took out his sword. The artist was dragged to his knees. The leader stabbed out his eyes. "Now, how do you see things?"
His head was pushed to the ground, his arms were stretched out in front of him. In two chops, the rebel leader cut off his hands. "What will you create, now?"
When his head was pulled back upright, the artist was smiling.
The rebel leader stared at the artist. "Why are you smiling," he asked.
The artist said nothing and continued to smile.
"Why are you smiling", the leader repeated.
"I am finished," said the artist. And the rebel leader slit his throat.
The artist's body slumped upon the ground, his blood flowing and pooling around him. The rebel leader watched him. He shook his head, uncertain of what had happened.
It was only later, as he walked the castle and reflected upon its walls that he started to form a picture.
What he saw distressed him. There were so many of them, these paintings. They covered half the walls of the castle. At first he wanted to destroy them, these manyfold offerings to the fallen tyrant, but somehow he could not.
The work was good, with bold lines and articulate contours, but this did not matter to the rebel leader.
He was struck by the sadness. Why were the paintings sad? If they were flatteries, surely they would have shown things in a positive light?
He paced the halls, trying to make sense of it. He studied the paintings. Had the tyrant been sad? Had the artist? Where did the sadness come from?
The rebel leader continued to pace. Perhaps the sadness was deliberate? The rebel leader remembered his conversation with the artist. Were these paintings offering council, a suggestion of what needed to be different, about how things had to change?
He wondered what the artist had said to the tyrant. Had the tyrant understood? Why were there so many paintings? Surely they set a mood around the castle. Had they affected the tyrant's resolve? Why had he allowed so many to be painted?
The rebel leader walked. The thoughts spiralled round and round. Perhaps, the paintings had been responsible for the rebel's easy victory? But this was a foolish thought.
The leader wished that he had not killed the artist. He wished that he could ask him, that he could know his intentions, that he could know what had really happened. He wanted to understand. He did not normally have doubts, but now he was second guessing himself.
He thought about it for many days, walking the halls, looking at the pictures. He began to question everything. He became obsessed. Had he been wrong to kill the artist? But why had the artist been so willing to die? Was it guilt? The uncertainty was too great. He could not rationalise his actions. He would act differently in future.
He dwelt on the artist's last words. He remembered them clearly. "I am finished," said the artist. What was finished, his life?
The rebel leader wasn't certain, but he thought perhaps he'd meant something more. He thought about the artist's blood as it pooled upon the ground, about his supplicated body, his broken eyes and hands. He thought about the pictures, of his thoughts about them now. And he wondered, perhaps, if the artist had meant an artwork, an instrument of change.
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