If you ask him, he will talk for hours how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers raw with cold, and later painted bowers in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers for two weeks in jail, and lived on bread; how he fled the border to a country which disappeared wars ago; unfriended crossed a continent while this country began.
He seldom speaks of painting now. Young men have time and theories; old men work. He has painted countless portraits. Sallow nameless faces, made glistening in oil, smirk above anonymous mantelpieces. The turpentine has a familiar smell, but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies. Perched on the maul-stick, it nears the easel.
He has come to like this resignation. In his sketch books, ink-dark cassocks hear the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow. His pen alone recalls that years ago, one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear which, poised, seemed pointed straight to pierce the sun.
I love this as it sparks my curiosity and interest in the person you have described. What a wonderful piece and reminding me there are stories worth hearing because there are people that know how to tell them.
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