IF I WAS A REAL ARTITST I'D KNOW WHERE TO DRAW THE LINE..

There’s an old Chinese folk-tale about an artist who disappears up his own masterpiece.

Nobody had seen him in the village for weeks, maybe months, it was a mystery what had happened to him, this old stumblebum, harmless but a bit wrong in the head, lived alone in a little shack deep in the deep dark woods. Nobody had even been to the shack to see if he was still alive or dead, they preferred the mystery. And nobody had the slightest inkling he might be an artist. Only the village art-teacher had any suspicion at all, cause he’d seen the old guy picking through the school trash for discarded paint-brushes and half-empty pots of paint. His curiosity was piqued…

So one day he went into the deep dark woods and he found the little shack, the door open, but no sign of the old stumblebum inside, just all these paintings piled up on the floor, against the wall, discarded piles and piles of them, on scraps of paper, tree-bark, any flat blank canvas the old guy could lay his hands on.. Just one still set up on a makeshift easel, this beautiful landscape, rolling hills, snow-capped mountain-peaks, a deep dark woods, and in the foreground on a village green all these villagers frolicking and feasting on the new harvest, as the blood-red sun set radiantly in the vast blue, crimson and turquoise sky. It was a masterpiece! Something the art-teacher could only imagine painting in his dreams. And no sign of the artist himself.

So that night, under cover of darkness, the art-teacher returned into the deep dark woods with a handcart, piled it up with all those paintings and brought them back to his little studio in the school-basement. Next morning, the masterpiece tucked tightly under his arm, he set off into the city to show it off to the expert art-critics. And they all agreed : it was a masterpiece!! Before long people were flocking from all over to see it. The art-teacher was famous. He was also rich, cause he’d sold off all the paintings but one, that priceless masterpiece, which he kept chained up at the front of his classroom in the new art-school he’d built for himself, to which disciples from all over the world thronged to study and worship at their master’s feet!

He was rich, but he was also cheap. So instead of hiring a regular janitor to caretake his school, he found an old stumblebum, from the village poor-house, harmless but a bit wrong in the head, who would do his dirty work in exchange for a cot in the basement and scraps from his master’s feastings. But no matter how badly the old guy was treated he maintained this resolute cheerfulness, which after a while began to irritate the master who was becoming ever more stressed out by all these people asking him questions he really had no answer for, he just kept pointing to his masterpiece as proof of his pudding!

He began to suspect the old stumblebum must be up to something funny after his work when nobody was looking. So one night the master hid in a closet at the back of the classroom, with a peep-hole, so he could see the old guy finish his chores, put down his mop, broom and dust-pan and go to the front of the class to gaze for what seemed like an eternity into that beautiful landscape…Suddenly there was a flash of light, so bright it blinded the master in his peep-hole. When he opened his eyes the old guy had vanished. He stepped out of the closet, like nothing had changed but he knew everything had changed. For the first time he could clearly see the little shack in the painting, buried deep in the deep dark woods, barely visible amid all the foliage, its’ door slightly ajar, a crack of light… And he knew that’s where the old stumblebum had gone and so had the artist before him… For a moment he was tempted to go in after them, but he hesitated for fear of who or what else he might find in there…Then he realized if they could go in, they could also come out and this world he’d created for himself might truly be changed forever…So he grabbed a paintbrush and a pot of red paint and began painting bricks over the door of that shack, over that crack of light….

Nothing had changed but everything had changed. Next morning the students could see it too. That beautiful landscape, the rolling hills, the snow-capped mountain-peaks now seemed dull and drab, the sky overcast, a wearily jaundiced sun setting possibly for the last time, as in the foreground all the villagers were arguing and fighting in the dust over scraps from their master’s feastings…Only in the deep dark woods was there any sign of purposefully creative life as a fleck of red paint crumpled to the floor, the students gasped, another fleck of red paint then another, till suddenly a miniature human fist appeared pushing out the final brick, a blinding flash of light! When everyone opened their eyes again, the old caretaker stumblebum was standing there at the head of the room apologizing for interrupting the class and telling everybody it was time for his morning-nap. Meanwhile, in the back, the art-teacher had crumpled all-trembling to his knees, moaning, groaning and weeping and promising to give everybody their money back…..