I
Marlo had been working on his new painting for two days straight. He kept scratching things out, changing the concept. A hundred ideas swarmed in his head, buzzing like a nest of wasps, but he couldn't focus on just one. This time, he was painting a portrait of a plump, elderly aristocrat. He always paid meticulous attention to details - the folds of fabric, the ornaments in the background. He could spend hours etching out the tiny wrinkles around a person's eyes. But that wasn't enough for him. Marlo liked to give his subjects a story.
He remembered his mentor's words well:
"It's not enough to show something. You have to tell a story. Always remember who you are painting for."
From that moment on, Marlo always carried a notebook. He jotted down whole narratives for his characters - clumsy scribbles, since he'd had little schooling and no talent for writing. But it was enough. Enough to build a world, to turn words into brushstrokes.
Yet this time, something was wrong.
From the very start, everything about this painting had gone awry.
First, he couldn't decide which class the woman should belong to. He had been tempted to paint a queen. Ever since childhood, he had dreamt of the grand royal palace, perched on a hill beyond the city. He and his father would often gaze at its glowing windows during their evening walks. As a boy, he had imagined himself inside - sometimes a nobleman, sometimes even the king himself. That dream had yet to come true, but Marlo believed that one day, he would be rewarded for his art by the king's own hand.
He sketched out dozens of designs for an ornate diamond tiara. He spent hours refining the crimson satin gown, the pearl necklace. But then he remembered - the people weren't exactly fond of Queen Victoria. Too greedy, even for a queen. Never showed her face to the common folk, unlike the king. Treated her servants like dirt. Last week, she had made a young governess walk naked through the town square over some petty mistake.
The queen was out of the question.
Then he recalled an old newspaper clipping about Duchess Maria de Nordo. She donated millions to orphanages every month. Visited war hospitals, dressed soldiers' wounds with her own hands, sang songs to keep their spirits up.
Now there was a woman worth painting.
For two days, Marlo worked on the portrait. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, just downed cup after cup of coffee.
Yet nothing felt right. The shadows fell wrong. The dress color clashed with her angelic blue eyes. The smile - too artificial. He didn't know her personally, but Maria de Nordo would never smile like that.
Frustrated, Marlo slashed a line across the canvas and hurled it to the floor.
"You're rushing."
Marlo turned. His mentor, Leonardo de Santi, stood in the doorway.
"I thought you were out of town today," Marlo said, scrambling to his feet and bowing politely. The old man ignored it.
De Santi dropped into a chair with a grunt. "How many times have I told you?" He shook his head. "Focus on one thing at a time. Don't try to paint everything at once. If you start on a face, finish it. Don't put it off for later - later never comes. You either do it now, or you don't do it at all."
The old man leaned forward, eyeing Marlo carefully.
"A lot of people can paint, but only a real artist knows how to tell a story."
Leonardo de Santi paused.
"Do you think you're a real artist, Marlo?"
Marlo met his mentor's gaze but said nothing. He could have told him how he pushed himself every day, always trying to improve, always testing his limits. But did that make him a great artist? He didn't know. What was the point of all his effort if he had nothing to show for it? And what did "great artist" even mean? Who got to decide? Was Rob Gonsalves truly less talented than Magritte or Picasso? Was it all just a matter of taste?
Marlo could ponder these questions for days. But he had no real answers. Not yet.
For now, all he could do was what he did best - keep painting.
Marlo walked to the window, watching the city settle into dusk. The streets grew quiet, the shops closing one by one.
The butcher locked up his stall. Judging by his scowl, business hadn't been good. Fewer and fewer people could afford beef or lamb these days. The candy maker on the next street hadn't had a customer all week. But the baker? He was doing just fine. An old woman had just bought a loaf, and a dozen more people stood waiting in line - children, young men, the elderly. And the crowd kept growing.
"You know, Master," Marlo said, "sometimes it seems to me that people need very little to be happy. A meal. A warm bed. A shooting star. A cockfight in the courtyard."
"Go on," De Santi murmured, intrigued.
"And I don't blame them," Marlo smiled. "In times like these, people think about survival first. They don't have time for art. Society has become… predictable."
He frowned.
"And I don't like it."
De Santi sighed. "And what exactly is bothering you? That your work isn't popular? You look pale. Are you sick? What are you rambling about, Marlo?"
The old man studied him carefully. "You're not having some kind of artistic crisis, are you?"
"Not at all," Marlo waved him off. "I'm full of ideas, as always. But I can't stop thinking about what you said. 'Remember who you're painting for.'"
"That's right," De Santi nodded. "And do you follow that principle?"
"Always," Marlo said. "But…"
He picked the painting off the floor and examined Maria de Nordo's face.
"Look at this woman." He handed the canvas to his mentor. "What do you see?"
"Sloppy shadows," De Santi muttered.
"Not that," Marlo sighed. "Though thanks for the compliment. You're as encouraging as ever."
They both laughed.
"I mean, look at her eyes. What do you see?"
De Santi studied the portrait, stroking his beard. "I see sorrow," he said finally. "But also hope. Contradictions. Her gown marks her as nobility, but the torn hem, the dirt on her hands - she's different. She's no typical aristocrat. Probably prefers playing with stray dogs over attending royal balls. Her lips are tight, her face stern - she's a doer, not a talker. I'd say you've painted a rather intriguing character."
Marlo watched him with interest.
Then he smiled.
"Bravo," he clapped. "You've outdone yourself, Master. You saw things I never even thought about."
"That's the beauty of it," the old man chuckled. "Paint what you will, and let the world make of it what they will."
They fell silent.
"But one thing still troubles me," Marlo said. "Is it worth devoting yourself to something that may never bring you wealth or fame - but fills you with purpose?"
De Santi smiled. "What more could a man ask for?"
II
Marlo lifted his brush and made the first stroke on a fresh canvas. He stepped back, squinted, wiped away the smudge with a rag.
"Yes," he nodded. "That's better."
Day after day, color after color, he worked. And when it was finally done, he collapsed into a chair, gazing at his masterpiece.
A slow smile spread across his lips.
"The best thing I've ever made," he murmured, sipping from a sapphire cup.
The sky outside burned green as a comet streaked across the horizon.
"Time for some rest," Marlo whispered, sinking into sleep.