~ The dream of an artist ~

Optimism can sometimes be tragic, sometimes comical, but never defeated. It always finds a suitable place to survive. If it were not for it, there would be neither us nor dreams. Sometimes it is the last healthy branch on a dried tree for which a drowning men catch up to escape the flood. Many interesting stories and anecdotes were born on this branch. One of them is about the artist who wanted to become famous and who tried everything to add his name to the list of greats. His eternal dream, in which he lazy on an exotic island while his works are sold at dizzying prices, has remained dangled, hanging on that branch. He never came out of that dream. He remained rotating in it, surrounded by a multitude of desires, which turned into a well without a bottom. All his vain attempts to get off the ground, and soar to the stars ended at the bottom of that well, which swallowed them voraciously and turned them into oblivion. I did not forget him. It was interesting to me all this persistence and optimism, which radiated from each of his moves. He was constantly trying to raise everything around him to a higher level. He read a lot, but only biographies of well-known artists. Those were the only books on his shelves. The others he never bought because he thought it was unnecessary throwing money. All his knowledge of life and the world began and ended with those biographies. In each of them he was looking for a part of himself, any kind of resemblance to the greats. He was sure that the talent of one of them at one point in time had passed on him and that the solution of this enigma was the key to his success. He decided to find the key, even if he was looking for him for the rest of his life. And so, one fine morning, still under the influence of sleep, a small artist decides to become big. The first steps, after a warm, aromatic coffee, led him to the closest store of art material. After such a big decision everybody would expect to see him, cluttered with bags, coming out of it. In contrast to these expectations, he appeared with a single bag, in which only a few large boxes of cheap oil colors were displayed. He was convinced that besides the image, this was all he needed to create great works, and he was not far from the truth. He worked a lot on that image and devoted all his precious time to it; he painted it with mysticism and miracles. Everything about himself, even his own thoughts, he constantly dragged through some spirals. From the shelves, covered with a thick layer of dust, various old, interesting items, bought cheaply from those who were barely waiting to get rid of them, were peeked out. The black and white photos of his studio left some special impression on the observers and made them think and discover. The thoughtful creator, who looked for inspiration in large smoke rings, was constantly staying in their center. In that dense tobacco smoke, which came out of the black pipe, his paintings, pushed back into the background, were stifled. In front of them, surprised and calm, exotic animals stood, which seemed to have begun to understand their role in the emergence of something very important. And so, step by step, a small artist became big. His name was everywhere. The monograph on his successful and fertile creativity stood on a special shelf, separated from other books. It always welcomed curious journalists who often came to his home, especially when they had nothing to write about. They were stared at his dreams and filled their empty columns with them, and he, proud of his success, stood on the threshold of fame and only saw his name go towards him. It seemed to him that everything he was dreaming about was somewhere nearby, behind that threshold, at his fingertips, and that he just needed to grab it and get it into his net. He wanted to be Salvador Dali, Van Gogh, and Henri Rousseau, and Wilhelm Kuhnert, but in the end he nevertheless decided to become Giovanni Segantini. In his difficult childhood and youth, he found some traces of his own soul, for which he was sure they would lead him to fame. Wrapped in his own dream, he sat in the first train and headed to Italy, meeting interesting landscapes. Except for the wind, no one met him there. He picked up all the sorrow of lonely shepherds and returned to his home. Great formats, created after this return, besides the enormous desire for specialty and size, showed nothing else. They covered the cracks in the walls, through which a strong wind came in, and sometimes, on cold winter days, they ended up in flames. The door of his home was always open, but, except hungry bugs, rarely anyone came. However, he still dreamed the same dream. There was no reality that could have interrupted it. Obsessed with the difficult lives of many great artists, he constantly said that he was poor and hungry. He was flattered to everyone, and he lied a lot and always, and his tongue, developed from excessive talk, was so big that he had to get out it of his jaw while he was asleep, so as not to suffocate himself. He was so burdened with fame that it seemed like he was dreaming open eyes. Fear that something will miss him and that he will miss a good opportunity did not leave him in the most beautiful dreams. This fear, he also transferred to his paintings. The bitter moves, which sometimes reminded of plowing around the fields, depicted his soul and mixed moods. With every new painting he lived another life. He constantly changed styles and motives, and he was convinced that only one good combination was enough, which, like a lottery, would lead him to a win. His works were more and more like the attempts, which were all slower in succession. He began to lose his face. It disappeared somewhere at the border between truth and lies, desires and accomplishments. A new, unknown being, whose actions he could not foresee, began to be born in him. He tried to separate it from himself and place it in the space of distant dreams, but it did not want to leave. It stretched through his self-portraits, which, although created under the same painting brush, were strange and cold, as if they did not belong to the same author. Only coloring, which did not show any desire to change and move on its own way, merged them. Except for the perspective, through which his observation and perception of the world seemed to be different at moments, everything was always the same and it looked cheap and superficial, but the prices of his paintings were so high that Picasso came from that world. All those searches for the key, which, although persistent, he could not find, were probably included in those prices. Tired of searching and large formats, he slowly began to give up and look for himself in a new dream. Recently, I accidentally walked through his street. Everything was the same as many years ago, except for the noticeable inscription that was standing at his house: “Paintings have an unlimited duration! Buy it freely, it can not be rotten!”
The dream of an artist, author Suzana Stojanović, December 18, 2017