The Artist: Part 1

It had not been like this from the beginning. He barely encountered people who smiled, looking at him, in recognition. He felt that the more he was closer to the people, the crowd, culture and the civilization, the more he receded from himself, the more he declined to understand himself, his inner emotions and demons.

Sitting on  a rocking chair, he gazed into the never ending landmass of  Peterhof. Peterhof was a village just a few miles of St. Petersburg. The icy chilly winter of rural Russia had forced him to make a shell around him. He just sat on the chair, reflecting; thinking about those lost years on the streets of Europe.

Food in Peterhof was in plenty. His landlord, Mr. Bulgakov,  who lived in St. Petersburg had provided him with a butler and all the basic neccessities were included in his rent. He woke up in the morning and the coffee and bread were waiting on the bed stand. Since Mr. Bulgakov's house was one of those few homes where electricity was available, hence Paul could enjoy a hot bath in the large Russian style bathroom located at the far end of the hall. The hall boasted of excellent 16th century furniture and a portrait of Ivan-the terrible hung above the opulent sofas.

After his breakfast and shower in the morning, Paul made it a point not to have newspapers in the house and spent the noon in Mr. Bulgakov's excellent library located on the second floor
The large windows extended from the low windowsills to the ceiling. A generous amount of winter light slanted into the library through these windows. It was near one of these windows, between the two bookshelves of Medieval Russian literature and Modern French poetry that he found his secluded island of rocking chair. These days, all he read was the history of the czars. Their blood thirst and abhorrence of all human principles didn't effect him. And, moreover, to his surprise, he even could find justification in the heinous actions of the czars and that is what made him discover this new numbness about him. He was amazed at how unresponsive he had become.

But, he barely read a page, when his eyes strayed outside the windows, onto the barren fields of winter. The expanse of his view ran unpunctuated. No mountain, stream or river obstructed the land encrusted with the snow. The soft light of the afternoon and the electric heater warmed him on the chair. He didn't even remember for how long he had not been into his saloon. He thought that Dimitri, the ever invisible and omnipresent butler, must have cleaned the saloon and taken good care of his incomplete works.

His years in the cafes and saloons of Paris were the most productive ones. He had met and trained under some of the greatest names of the time. His work had received much appreciation at exhibitions in Vienna and Paris. Some people even compared him to Camille Pissario. He had earned a good amount of money in those early years of century when art was thriving in Paris and the financial security encouraged him to explore new avenues in his art form. He had always been from his youth, inclined toward impressionism and the outdoors always inspired him in his art. But , lately, he was experiencing a strong disenchantment from everything related to nature or beauty based on primary views. There was a strong sense, pervading his thoughts, of the things that lay beneath it. He was interested in the actions and emotions of humans, how and why they acted like this and the utter disparity he saw in the industrial area of London seemed to question his very basis of art. He wanted to express, what he saw as the reality, through his brush strokes. But, the moment he tried to reflect the reality on the canvas, his hands froze.

He lived with this artistic block for a year until it became too difficult to face himself. He lay awoke at nights for weeks, thinking about the empty canvasses. He barely ate. His only, friend in Paris, Dr. Dupont often came visiting him due to his deteriorating condition. One evening, as Paul was serving a drink to Dr. Dupont, the doctor could see how he had aged in the bygone year. He had lost a lot of weight. The clothes hung loosely on his shoulders, barely giving away the contours. His eyes and cheeks had sunk. Dr.Dupont, who himself was a psychologist, had been giving him medication and observing him closely.
The doctor said " Paul, I think you should leave Paris for some time.It'll help in your health."
"But its here that I have got all my success" Paul replied.
"I know about it. But the past year, you've been struggling to paint. Your health has been deteriorating.Moreover, being aware of the happenings of the art world will even affect you further."
"Dupont, you're not getting me. My problem is different. I don't have any psychological or a peer problem. Its more of a creative one."
"Then, living in Paris will hardly benefit you because if it had, then you'd not have been in this condition".
Sipping his whisky, Paul seemed to reflect for a moment and then said " If you insist, I'll try that too. But, where shall I go?"
"Go to America. Everybody is going there these days. They say its the new cradle of art.Democracy, equality and every modern principle is being put to test there. If you want, I can arrange a cabin for you on the cruiser?"
"No, wait, Let me think about it. Lets meet tomorrow at the Champ Elysees. I haven't been there for an year".