Vocation

2024 Author: Seth Attwood | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-16 15:55

How often do we think about how we would like to live, what we would most like to do? This parable will help everyone to take a fresh look at such, seemingly abstracted from everyday life, concepts such as vocation, talent, the essence of creativity …

He became an artist simply because after school he had to go somewhere. He knew that work should be enjoyable, and he liked to draw - and so the choice was made: he entered an art school.

By this time, he already knew that the image of objects is called a still life, nature - a landscape, people - a portrait, and he knew a lot more from the field of his chosen profession. Now he had more to learn. “In order to improvise, you first need to learn to play with the notes,” declared an imposing teacher, a famous artist, at the introductory lecture. "So get ready, let's start from scratch."

He began to learn to "play by sheet music." A cube, a ball, a vase … Light, shadow, partial shade … Hand positioning, perspective, composition … He learned a lot of new things - how to stretch the canvas and weld the soil himself, how to artificially age the canvas and how to achieve the finest color transitions … The teachers praised him, and once he even heard from his mentor: "You are an artist from God!" “Aren't the others from God?” He thought, although, why hide, it was pleasant.

But now the cheerful student years were behind him, and now he had a diploma in art education in his pocket, he knew a lot and was even more able, he gained knowledge and experience, and it was time to start giving. But … Something went wrong with him.

No, not that it wasn’t happening to him. And it's not that the profession has ceased to please. Perhaps he just matured and saw something that he had not noticed before. And this was revealed to him: life was boiling all around, in which art had long been a commodity, and it was not necessarily the one who had something to say to the world who succeeded - rather the one who knew how to competently present and sell his work, to be at the right time, in the right place, with the right people. Unfortunately, he never learned it. He saw how his comrades were rushing about, looking for themselves and their place under the sun, and some in these rushes "break", drown the lack of demand and dissatisfaction in alcohol, lose their bearings, degrade … He knew: often the creators were ahead of their era, and their paintings received recognition and a good price only after death, but this knowledge did little comfort.

He got a job, where they paid well, spent all day developing the design of all kinds of brochures, business cards, brochures, and even got a certain satisfaction from this, but he drew less and less reluctantly. Inspiration came less and less. Work, home, TV, routine … More and more often the thought came to him: “Is this my vocation? Have I dreamed of living my life like this, with a dotted line like it’s a pencil sketch? When will I start painting my own picture of life? And even if I do, can I? But what about the "artist from God"? " He realized that he was losing his qualifications, that he was turning into a zombie, which, day after day, performed a set of certain actions, and this bothered him.

In order not to go crazy with these thoughts, on weekends he began to go with his easel to the alley of Masters, where the ranks of all sorts of artisans were located. Knitted shawls and birch bark handicrafts, beaded jewelry and patchwork bedspreads, clay toys and wicker baskets - what was not there! And fellow artists also stood with their imperishable canvases, in large numbers. And then there was competition …

But he didn't care about competition, he just wanted to create … He painted portraits to order. Pencil on paper, ten minutes - and the portrait is ready. Nothing complicated for a professional - that's all you need to be able to notice details, maintain proportions and slightly flatter the customer, so, just a little embellish the nature. He did it skillfully, people liked his portraits. And it looks like, and beautiful, better than in life. We thanked him often and from the bottom of our hearts.

Now life became somehow more fun, but he clearly understood that this "painting" would be called a vocation somehow … too strong. However, it's still better than nothing.

Once he made another portrait, an elderly long-nosed aunt posed for him, and he had to try hard to "make it beautiful." The nose, of course, you can't go anywhere, but there was something inviting in her face (purity, or what?), That's what he emphasized. It worked out well.

“It's done,” he said, handing the portrait to his aunt. She studied him for a long time, and then raised her eyes to him, and he even blinked - she was staring at him so intently.

- Something is wrong? - he even asked again, lost from her gaze.

“You have a calling,” the woman said. - You know how to see deep …

“Yeah, x-ray eye,” he joked.

“Not that,” she shook her head. - You draw as if the soul … So I look and understand: in fact, I am the same as you painted. And everything outside is superficial. It's like you've removed the top coat of paint, and underneath is a masterpiece. And this masterpiece is me. Now I know for sure! Thank you.

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

The aunt was, to be sure, strange. Wow, "you draw your soul"! Although who knows what he painted there? Maybe a soul … After all, everyone has some kind of outer layer, that invisible husk that sticks in the process of life. And by nature, everyone was conceived as a masterpiece, he was just sure of this as an artist!

Now his drawing was filled with some new meaning. No, he did not bring anything new to the technology - the same paper and pencil, the same ten minutes, just his thoughts kept returning to the fact that it was necessary to try on and “remove the top layer of paint” so that an unknown “masterpiece” would be released from under him. ". It seems to work. He really liked to watch the first reaction of "nature" - people had very interesting faces.

Sometimes he came across such "models" in which the soul was much worse than the "outer layer", then he looked for some bright spots in it and intensified them. You can always find light spots if you adjust for that vision. At least, he has never met a person in whom there would be nothing good at all.

- Hey, bro! - Once a sturdy man in a black jacket turned to him. “You… remember if you don’t… painted my mother-in-law last weekend.

He remembered his mother-in-law, she looked like an old toad, her daughter - she would grow old, she would be a rat, and he was with them, for sure. He then had to strain all his imagination to turn the toad into something acceptable, to see at least something good in it.

- Well? - he asked cautiously, not understanding where the strong man was heading.

- So this … She has changed. For the better. As he looks at a portrait, he becomes a man. And so, between us, as far as I know her, a toad is a toad …

The artist involuntarily snorted: he was not mistaken, it means that he saw as if …

- Well Duc I wanted to ask you: can you draw it in oil? To be sure! To consolidate the effect, therefore … I will not stand for the price, do not hesitate!

- Why not fix it? It can be cooked in oil, marinade, and mayonnaise sauce. Only they do not paint with oil, they write.

- In-in! Write it down in the best possible way, I will pay for everything at the highest level!

The artist felt cheerful. Directly "portrait of Dorian Gray", only with a plus sign! And since they offer - why not try?

I tried and wrote. The mother-in-law was satisfied, the sturdy one too, and his wife, the toad's daughter, demanded that she, too, be captured for centuries. From envy, I guess. The artist did his best here too, he was inspired - he strengthened the sexual component, added softness, highlighted the kindness of his soul … It was not a woman who turned out to be a queen!

Apparently, the strong man was a man of a wide soul and shared his impressions in his circle. Orders poured in one after another. Rumor has it about the artist that his portraits have a beneficial effect on life: peace reigns in families, ugly women become prettier, single mothers get married in an instant, and the potency of men increases.

Now there was no time to go to Masters Lane on weekends, and he left his office without any regret. He worked at home for customers, people were all rich, paid generously, passed from hand to hand. Enough for paints, and canvases, and black caviar, even on weekdays. I sold the apartment, bought more, but with a room for a workshop, made good repairs. It would seem, what more could you want? And thoughts began to visit him again: is this really his vocation - to paint all kinds of "toads" and "rats", trying with all his might to find at least something bright in them? No, it’s a good thing, of course, and useful for the world, but all the same, all the same … There was no peace in his soul, she seemed to be calling him somewhere, asking for something, but what about? Couldn't hear.

Once he was irresistibly drawn to get drunk. Take it like that - and go to Drabadan to pass out and not remember anything later. The thought frightened him: he knew well how quickly creative people get along this dashing route to the very bottom, and did not want to repeat their path at all. He had to do something, and he did the first thing that came to mind: canceled all his sessions, grabbed an easel and a folding chair and went there, to Masters Lane. Immediately he began to work feverishly - to make sketches of streets, people, a park across the street. It seems to have felt better, let go …

- Excuse me, do you paint portraits? So that immediately, immediately get it, - they asked him. He raised his eyes - next to a woman, a young woman, her eyes tortured, as if they had been wept out. Probably, someone died in her, or some other grief …

- I draw. Ten minutes and you're done. Do you want to order your portrait?

- Not. Dochkin.

Then he saw his daughter - choked, coughed. A child of about six years old looked like an alien: despite a fine warm day, he was packed in a gray overalls, and you couldn't even understand whether a boy or a girl, there was a thick cap on his head, a transparent mask on his face, and his eyes … The old man's eyes, who has experienced much, much pain and is preparing to die. Death was in them, in those eyes, that's what he clearly saw there.

He did not ask anything more. He saw such children on TV and knew that the child most likely had cancer, radiology, immunity at zero - then a mask, and that the chances of survival were minimal. It is not known why and how he knew this, but somehow he was sure. The artist's trained eye, noticing all the details … He glanced at his mother - yes, it was, she knew. I was already preparing internally. Probably, she also wanted a portrait, because the latter. So that at least the memory was …

“Sit down, princess, now I’ll draw you,” he said to the alien girl. - Just look, don't turn around and don't jump, otherwise it won't work.

The girl was hardly capable of turning or jumping up, she moved carefully, as if she was afraid that her body would crumble from careless movement, scatter into small fragments. She sat down, folded her hands in her lap, stared at him with the eyes of the wise tortoise Tortilla, and patiently stood still. Probably all childhood in hospitals, and there patience is developed quickly, without it you cannot survive.

He tensed, trying to discern her soul, but something interfered - either a shapeless overalls, or tears in his eyes, or the knowledge that the old methods would not work here, some fundamentally new, non-trivial solution was needed. And it was found! Suddenly I thought: “What could it be if it were not for the disease? Not a stupid jumpsuit, but a dress, not a cap on a bald head, but bows? Imagination began to work, the hand itself began to sketch something on a sheet of paper, the process began.

This time, he did not work as usual. The brains were definitely not involved in the process, they turned off, and something else turned on. Probably a soul. He painted with his soul, as if this portrait could be the last not for the girl, but for him personally. As if it was he who had to die of an incurable disease, and there was very little time left, maybe the same ten minutes.

“Done,” he tore a piece of paper from his easel. - Look how beautiful you are!

Mom and daughter looked at the portrait. But it was not quite a portrait and not quite "from nature." On it a curly-haired blonde girl in a summer sarafan was running with a ball across a summer meadow. Grass and flowers under your feet, above your head - the sun and butterflies, a smile from ear to ear, and energy - more than enough. And although the portrait was drawn with a simple pencil, for some reason it seemed that it was made in color, that the grass was green, the sky was blue, the ball was orange, and the sarafan was red with white peas.

- Am I like that? - muffled from under the mask.

- Such, such, - the artist assured her. - That is, now, maybe not like that, but soon you will. This is a portrait from next summer. One to one, more precisely photographs.

Her mother bit her lip, looked somewhere past the portrait. Looks like she was holding on with the last bit of strength.

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

“A gift,” the artist dismissed. - What is your name, princess?

- Anya …

He put his signature and title on the portrait: "Anya". And also the date - today's date, and the next year.

- Hold! I'm expecting you next summer. Be sure to come!

Mom put the portrait in her purse, hastily grabbed the child and walked away. She could be understood - she probably was in pain, because she knew that there would be no next summer. But he didn’t know anything like that, he didn’t want to know! And he immediately began to sketch a picture - summer, Masters Lane, here he sits, but two people come up the alley - a happy laughing woman and a curly-haired girl with a ball in her hands. He created a new reality with inspiration, he liked what he was getting. It turned out very realistic! And to write a year, a year - the next! So that the miracle knows when it will be fulfilled!

- Create the future? - someone asked with interest, imperceptibly approached from behind.

He turned around - there was a dazzling beauty, all such that you do not know what to call her. Angel, maybe? Only the nose is, perhaps, a bit long …

- Learned? - the woman-angel smiled. “Once upon a time you created my future. Now - the future of this girl. You are the real Creator! Thank you…

- What kind of creator am I? - burst out from him. - So, an amateur artist, a failed genius … They said that my talent is from God, and I … I paint slowly, in little things, trying to understand what my vocation is.

- Don't you understand yet? The angel woman raised her eyebrows. - You can change reality. Or is this not a calling for you?

- I AM? Change reality? Is it possible?

- Why not? It doesn't take much for that! Love for people. Talent. The power of faith. Actually, that's all. And you have it. Look at me - it all started with you! Who was I? And who am I now?

She reassuringly put her hand on his shoulder - as if she fanned her wing, smiled and went.

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

- Angel! - she turned around as she walked. - Thank you, Creator!

… He can still be seen in the lane of Masters. An old easel, a folding chair, a suitcase with art supplies, a large umbrella … There is always a queue for him, legends about him are passed from mouth to mouth. They say that he sees in a person what is hidden deep inside, and can draw the future. And not just draw - change it for the better. They also say that he saved many sick children by moving them to another reality in drawings. He has students, and some have adopted his magical gift and can also change the world. Particularly distinguished among them is a blond curly-haired girl of about fourteen, she knows how to remove the most severe pain through pictures, because she feels someone else's pain as her own.

And he teaches and draws, draws … No one knows his name, everyone simply calls him - the Creator. Well, such is a person's vocation …

Author: Elfika