Thursday, February 28, 2008

The Painter and his Masterpiece

Once upon a time, there lived a painter.
He was a helpless drunkard.
But he had the hands of Picasso and Van Gogh
He never went to an art school or remained in the company of fellow painters.
He used to hum his own tune.
He used to say to himself and to the world that "one day I will paint a masterpiece that the world would watch in awe, Mesmerized!".
One chilly morning his body was found near the staircase of his down-trodden apartment.
And the painter was me.


  1. were u a painter? never knew before..

    curious to c one of ur paintings..though painter probably died but i guess the paintings shud still b alive :)

  2. it looked as if u started (or intended to start) with something beautiful
    and ended up with crap, out of frustation it seems
    just like the dead painter

    if u want to express something .. uneed to be more subtle and artisitic

  3. I would like to see that painter someday (dead or alive).

  4. Tarun Soni, Ullas: No, it was neither a poem nor a prose. It's just what came in my mind. The whole paragraph very much represents the painter himself, as Ullas rightly mentions. It is abrupt, un-chiseled, raw with no regard to conventionality; But again, very much like the painter: it's dead! It has no value if seen in the light of any good work of literature. But the thing is the writer, like the painter, does not care about it. This is another kind of freedom. And you have to pay a big price for it. I hope you understand.

  5. well written.
    and i don't have any regrets for the painter. not even pity.
    probably he doesn't deserve this.

  6. In your depressed sleep I still see all bright colours "Red blue yellow orange green" ... hidden in your dreams,
    Awake shine and light that sleeping painter in you.

    Neither the Painter dies nor his Painting .They become immortal

  7. Hani: Thanks for the wonderful comments!