The Painter's Inspiration

I’ve often wondered where true inspiration really comes from. Some say it flows from deep within us. Others believe it’s a reaction to the ever-changing world around us. The world is a playwright, a cast and a stage, and we, her audience. As every second passes we observe another glorious scene, rich with beauty and blooming with majesty.

~

“And yet, why does one fail to be inspired?” said Alexander, desperately. “Why must my mind remain blank, and the tip of my brush dry?” In a small, dust-ridden attic, sat the painter. He stared solemnly at his blank canvas. It was the same blank canvas that had painfully mocked him weeks before. Even now, as the sun set, no longer visible through the small window, Alex knew that his drought could last a lifetime.

With the knowledge that he would get nowhere by sitting, paintbrush in hand, poised but never ready for attack, Alex rose. Midnight walks were good for two things: to catch a cold, and to clear one’s head. As Alex shut the door of the humble attic room, it was the latter that he had in mind. Nevertheless, as he descended down the old stairs, he concluded that his mind was already empty. Maybe his walk would reveal to him something, anything, which might allow for him to put paint to canvas once again.

He was not totally void of inspiration. There was something there, just out of reach. At times he was sure he had it, but by the time he had reached for his brush, it was gone. When expressing his dreams of art as a child, his father had chastised him. “The arts are for idle men who cannot work, and painting is for the most wretched of them!”

Alex admitted to himself, despairingly, his walk would make little difference. He had taken the same steps a million times and more, from his landlord, Berta’s, red door, past the old church, and to the top of the hill which resides on the outskirts of Vienna. There was nothing there that would aid Alex in his struggle.

Years ago, when he was only eighteen, a penniless painter with dreams of a prosperous career, Berta had offered him her attic with the assurance that he would find work, and the money to pay his rent. From the copious art critics, and buyers, Alex would be told of his raw talent, his striking eye for detail, his ability to take a blank canvas and create a scene of true beauty; and yet he never sold enough. Twelve years later Berta’s attic remained his home, barely making enough from his trade to pay the rent and obtain the supplies he needed. Still he persevered. Painting was the only thing he was truly capable of. Many times he had taken on a small paying factory job, or worked at the local market. Although, it was never long before he was asked to leave. He just couldn’t persist with such mindless, perfunctory tasks.

Alex made his way along the cobbled street, breathing in the cool night air. “I’ve been stuck in that attic for far too long” he said out loud, running his hands through his matted hair. It had been two days since he had last emerged; a desperate attempt to force himself to work. Art is a fickle gift. At times you have it, firmly held in your heart, and within moments it can leave you, naked and grappling in the dark for that which had once defined you.

By now Alex was well past the old church, and was approaching the top of the hill on which his allotment could be found. The night had turned cold, and he wished he hadn’t left without his coat. Fog was slowly settling all around. Alex came to the rusty gate, swinging it open. He had once used a lock and key, but there was no one in this area that would disturb the plot, or bother him there. He came to the place where he would sit, gazing out upon the city that he had grown to love as a child. “We live in a great city, Alexander” his father once said. “Learn to love it. Wherever you go, keep it in your heart. Only then will it keep you.” Apart from the dissatisfaction he so often expressed in his son, this was one of the few memories Alex had of his father. At the age of nine, he had left the boy and his mother to fend for themselves.

Tonight Alex could barely see the rooftops of Vienna. The mist had thickened, and now enveloped the whole city, hiding it from view. As there was not much to look at, Alex laid himself on the grass, feeling the cold wet slowly soaking his back. It refreshed him. He lay there for a long while; it was hard to tell how long. His eyes slowly closed, and his mind began to wander, dreaming, but far from sleep.

~

He was walking through the streets of Vienna, down forgotten alleyways and shadowed streets. The moon was high and lit his way with an eerie light. It struck him that the streets he walked were deserted. The only sound was that of his footsteps. There was no breeze. He knew he was near the centre of the city. He could see St Stephen’s Cathedral, towering far above all other rooftops, the beautiful structure gleaming in the night sky. He had painted it, once.

Alex was not quite sure what he was following. He couldn’t hear it, nor see it. It was as if an invisible force was leading, which was somehow a part of him. He passed shops, their doors lying open, but no customers inside. Market stalls, still laden with their goods, sat abandoned in the streets. He turned each corner with a certainty that told him: he knew where he was going. He was being led by feeling. It hummed softy within him, and with each step he took it grew in warmth. He looked up to the stars. the sky now clearer than he had ever seen before. He could now feel the humming throughout his whole body. In spite of the cold, it warmed his toes and fingertips. Alex knew his destination was near. His pace quickened. The humming filled his head. He was close.

Before him lay a small alleyway. A moonlight path shone before him, but he was unable to see where it led. Just out of sight, he knew there was something waiting for him in the shadows. On either side of the opening stood two identical bookshops. The wooden structures were old and worn, but the books in the windows were gleaming gold. They leaned towards the opening, beckoning him forward. Alex began to walk. As he entered the alley he felt as if the whole city was leaning towards him, watching, holding it’s breath. In reaching a dead end something glistened in the shadows.

On the wall was a large golden plaque. Two intricately carved dragons, with feathered wings, also of gold, sat on either side, guarding what was written there. Their eyes were rubies, and they’re wings outspread. Alex leaned forward, intrigued, trying to decipher the inscription. As the moonlight hit the plaque, what was written became clear:

~
‘Das Herz Wiens’
The Heart of Vienna
~

Below was a name he knew all too well…

Alex woke with a start. Had he slept? It didn’t feel so. He had no memory of tiredness before, but he could now feel the heavy weight of exhaustion, holding him to the wet ground. He sat up straight. The thick fog that had covered the city was now upon him. He could barely see two meters ahead. The last thing to do was panic, but as the painter turned slowly, finding his bearings, it was hard to fight back his feelings of hopelessness. “How will I find my way home?”

In the mist, he glimpsed the silhouette of the old gate. He rushed to it. Before him was nothing but swirling fog, taunting him. He opened the gate, but remained still, clinging to the rusted metal. Ahead lay a sea of white. If he let go, it would take him wherever it willed! The painter cleared his head and cursed himself. Whether it was for his foolishness in sleeping, or that he had scared himself half to death, he did not know. All he could do was walk until he found something familiar. That was all. There was no need for such apprehension. He took a step forward, and froze. In the mist was a shadow. It was the shadow of a man.

As the sinister shadow closed in, Alex stood, shivering, rooted in fear. His hand still clung to the gate, his stomach clenching. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow, running down his face and mixing with the tears he had not noticed were there when he awoke. The dark figure of a man was clearly visible now. All senses screamed within him to turn, to get away, but his mind was numb and his body refused. A bitter wind whipped around him. The fog lifted. For a short moment Alex saw a tall man dressed in black. He stood, arms by his sides, staring straight at the painter. The man’s face was drowned in shadows, but his eyes were clear. They were locked on Alex, and no matter how hard he tried, the painter could not tear his own gaze away. He could not see his mouth, but it was in those eyes of electric blue; the man was smiling. A cloud of thick fog drifted between the two men, and the shadowed figure disappeared.

There was little time to act. His legs were shaking, and he had cut his hand on the old gate, but the painter barely noticed. Had the man gone, or was he still standing, only a few meters away? Alex looked to his right. He had to move now. He plunged himself into the dense fog, aware of how easily he could lose his way. He wanted to run, to get as far from that ghostly man as he possibly could, but where would that leave him? Hopelessly lost and slave to the night; waiting for the fog to lift, or the bright sun to rise? Suddenly something brushed passed him. Alex twisted round, his heart racing. There was no sign of anyone, or anything. Had he imagined it?

After what seemed like hours, Alex came to a gray stonewall. He immediately recognized it as the wall that surrounded the grounds of the old church. “Thank God!” he cried aloud. He could easily have been walking the wrong way, and the fog wasn’t getting any thinner. With luck, it wouldn’t take him long to get home. He hoped Berta hadn’t locked the door on him. It was now well past midnight, and he didn’t want to have to wake her. He voiced his relief again, “Thank God.”
“Thank who?” For a second time, Alex whipped round. His eyes darted from left to right, frantically searching for whoever had spoken.
“Who’s there?” he insisted shakily. The unmistakable tone of fear laced his words.
The only reply was the squeaking hinges of the church gate. Out of nowhere a figure in black darted passed him, barely an arms reach away. The painter turned and ran blindly, guessing the direction of home, of safety. Someone blocked his way. He swiveled desperately and scrambled to the right. His hands found the rough stonewall. To his left the man approached. Using the wall as his guide, Alex mercifully found the gate, hurling himself through, and into the church grounds.

Finding refuge in the graveyard, Alex breathed heavily, taking in the cool night air. A soft breeze had stirred, and the fog was beginning to lift. Mist haunted the cemetery, lingering at the foot of every stone. It was enough to send shivers down his spine. In all the years he had spent in this area, he had never entered the churchyard. The painter cast his eyes over the gloomy scene.

Across the yard stood the man in black. Alex could see him clearly now. His coat hung off him like it would a skeleton; his shadowed face was gaunt, worn down by time’s crooked hand. In the fog he had feared this man, but now an anger awoke inside him. This man had tortured him, tormented him. Alex rose from his hiding place, catching the eye of his enemy. “Who are you?” The demand echoed across the grounds. “I am Alexander.” said the man. His voice rasped, but there was the unmistakable tone of enjoyment. This man was enjoying himself!
“Who are you?” called Alex once more.
Without another word, the man nodded slowly, and turned away.
“No!” yelled Alex. He couldn’t let him get away. Eyes set on the thin figure, he sprinted across the graveyard. He needed to know who he was, what he was playing at. After all he’d done, he couldn’t just leave.

A blinding pain shot up the painter’s leg. Alex screamed, and fell hard. He had caught his leg on a gravestone. Blood was now wetting his trouser leg as he groaned in agony. He raised his head, but there was no sight of the man. Before him lay another cold, grey gravestone. As he reached across to pull himself up he noticed something. Above the epitaph someone had etched a symbol. Alex pulled himself closer, awestruck. He recognized the small impression. It was a dragon, with the great feathered wings of an eagle. Below it read:

~
Maria Haas
Sister, Daughter, and loving Wife
of Alexander Haas
~

Warm tears filled the painter’s eyes and streamed down his face. Memories were flooding back; memories that were long ago buried deep within, almost forgotten. In his minds eye stood a beautiful woman, his wife. From her face shone warmth and goodness and a sweet song flew from her lips, as a melody that floats upon a summer’s breeze. Alex yearned to call out to her, but he could not. And that song, now soaring high above the clouds, was even sweeter than he could ever have imagined. It spoke of forgiveness: for his fear of their love at first, for his failure in providing for her after marriage, and finally, for fleeing far from Vienna the day she was buried.

Soon the song died, along with the guilt. Alex looked up from the grave and found the eyes of a man. “Thank you, father.”, whispered the painter. At that his father smiled, and disappeared into the mist from which he had come.

~

As morning’s first light shone through the attic window, Alex sat before the blank canvas. Fatigue tugged at his thoughts and his body ached, but he remained undeterred. In one hand he took his brush, in the other his pallet. The painter paused, just for a moment, to let the sun’s rays warm his face. He breathed deeply, and began to paint.