Artist

Once, I was an artist. Now I am simply a man who avoids museums. My apartment is a white cube without paintings.

It all began at a young artist's exhibition. I went there with a slight sense of condescension. And then I saw "Eternal Sleep"—a small canvas depicting an oak in an autumn park. I froze. The noise vanished. I could feel the tree's roots in my own feet, the rustle of leaves, the dampness of the rain. The label read: "Yan Chernov, 22 years old." I was thirty-seven.

And then I saw a figure sleeping between the roots. It appeared and disappeared, as if playing with the viewer. I realized with icy clarity: I could never do that. Never.

I stopped painting the very next day. I threw away my paints. I became a designer. Life entered a flat, predictable channel.

A year later, I received a letter from the gallery. A handwritten note: "Vlad, please come. I need to talk to you. Yan"

I went. The gallery was empty. Yan's paintings hung on the walls—that same magic of living forests and rivers.

"You came," I heard behind me.
Standing before me was a guy in a pale yellow shirt stained with paint.

"Why did you stop painting?" Yan asked bluntly.

"You know why," I scoffed.

He led me into a small studio. It was cluttered with failed canvases. Crooked faces, weak compositions. Dozens of failures.

"These are my failures. I keep them," Yan said, pulling out a canvas. On it was a poor copy of "Eternal Sleep." "The first version. Then five more. The sixth one is the one in the hall."

He looked at me. "Do you think this came easily? I struggled for six months. I cried from helplessness. And do you know what the hardest part was? The figure between the roots. I couldn't depict it. Until I remembered your painting. 'The Sleeper in the Park.' You exhibited it ten years ago. Back then, you managed to convey the unity of man and earth. I learned from you."

I couldn't believe my ears. That early, imperfect work...

"Art is not a race, but a conversation," Yan said. "You said something important back then. I heard it and responded. And someone is looking at mine now and will say their piece tomorrow."

He handed me a small bundle. "Open this when you are ready."

I don't know