The Value of ART

The Value Of Art

A sun-dappled morning as sweet as the happiest memory of childhood
greeted the occasion. The atmosphere was festive, yet brimming with portent, as
the crowd gathered beneath the brightly colored banners flapping obliviously in
the lilting spring breeze.

The sunshine seemed to fairly radiate from the old man, an artist of great
note, seated on a simple mahogany chair. Today, this master, who had never
taken a student, would announce a successor from the diverse throng gathered
to him from all corners of the world, specifically for this wonderful opportunity.
It had been rumored for some time that the artist was fast approaching his
twilight and many fervently wished that his work would not end with him.

Now, anxiously spellbound in anticipation, each of the individuals gathered
felt, in their own manner, that this would be their chance to show their skill as a
visionary. At rest, the hearts of the adults beat as quickly as those of the children
playing merrily nearby.

The old man surveyed the faces, each one wearing various masks, of excited
expectation, bemused wonder, or disdainful arrogance & pride. There seemed to
be no way of choosing the person for his task. All eyes were full of thoughts
about the future. Seemingly at random, he picked from the crowd, a man of
proud bearing and haughty stature. It appeared as though this man, whose
ruggedly handsome features and wavy locks of ebony, had incarnated from
some superhero comic book. Boldly striding to the fore, he approached the
master.

Saying nothing the old man simply gestured to a lump of granite, not much
larger than a smallish dog, raised I defiance of gravity upon its hindquarters.
With a gleam, Mr. Superhero produced a hammer and chisel and moved with the
determination of lust towards the stone. But before a sliver could be chipped the
old artist grabbed his arm. Moving with amazing celerity and strength for one so
decrepit, that Mr. Superhero fell backwards to the grass. Where he sat,
dumbfounded, glaring at the artist in a mingling of anger and confusion.
The old man quietly handed him back the mallet and asked him to leave.

Dark clouds played across knitted brows as the man left, his disappointment
cleverly hidden beneath a posture of indignation. The crowd murmured in
wonder, for it was commonly known that the man who had just left was renowned
as the top in his field, a sculpture of the classic school. A few other individuals left
as well, feeling their hope diminish beyond redemption.

The old man called forth a young lady; smartly stylish, short and stocky she
beamed easily with the confidence of someone who was well acquainted to
achieving the difficult. Her reddish tresses played in streaks cascading in angles
down her black linen smock. The old man smiled at her, for she seemed full of
life and the vigor of appreciating the simple. Having witnessed the sculptures
failing, she opted for another method, and called for her pallet and brushes.
But before a stroke could be laid, the old artist sadly touched her arm & shook his
head. She smiled her disappointment, as something like understanding danced
quickly across her features, she bowed and left the area. Looking back once to
relish the fact that she had been there.

Again, a mixture of tension and disbelief shook the crowd, for her incredible
grasp of the abstract had been heralded as the latest in innovation, and many
had scrambled to emulate her approach. The crowd shifted uneasily wondering,
if perhaps the master had gone fey. Polite murmurs turned into excited
gesticulations as the old man tiredly returned to his seat. A couple of his oldest
friends went to his side in concern, but he waved them away with a nod and a
smile at their thoughtfulness. As he sat, gazing out into a sea of, by now,
thoroughly bewildered faces, a child ran from between the legs of the collective
gathering straight to the piece of granite, which he hugged with genuine affection.

The crowd grew silent in mute horror. What would the old man do? But the
master just sat still, a satisfied glimmer in his eye as the child said simply, "My
brother is tired. He needs a nap." And gently laid the stone on its side. Horrified,
his mother rushed forward roused from shock to despair. Profusely incanting
every apology which good etiquette dictated, it seemed clear to everyone she
would surely be dispatched from any further events for her obviously lax parental
skills. But the old man simply held up his hand, and laughed. Laughing loudly,
clearly and robust with mirth, tears visible in the corners of his eyes. Again the
crowd grew silent in amazement. What had transpired to cause this? Had the old
guy snapped? Was this all just a costly joke? Why was he laughing?


It was then that the artist stood and spoke. "Gentle people", he began, "I am
honored beyond words that so many amazingly gifted people have gathered at
my behest. Each of you is unique to the vision you present in this lifetime. I could
not begin to deign such arrogance to alter it. When I put forth the request for an
apprentice, I wanted to find a person whose vision while unique to them, would
closely match my own. I have found my successor, I bid you all, thank you and
farewell." He then asked the mother if he may address the child, still dazed she
started and acquiesced. He knelt where the little boy sat stroking the granite and
singing a made up lullaby, and asked him, "Would you like to live the life of an
artist?" The child smiled up at him, putting his finger to his lips.