The Painter
Andrew Miller
The night had left the flowers covered with a shade of dew. The painter sat on a rock and drew until he was overtaken with boredom. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was awake so early in the morning and was even more unsure of why each day he seemed to have a more awkward sleeping pattern than the day before.
He walked through the door, still open from when he had come out, and made coffee. As he drank, he decided that he would go to the shore.
He stretched a canvas over a frame and stapled it in place. He gathered paint and brushes in a bag and set off through the forest. The leaves were just beginning to develop a tone of autumn that only Michigan can deliver. An artists dream, he thought.
The old man tumbled over one last heap of brush before reaching the welcoming scent and sounds of the lake. He walked down the white dune and through a thin layer of grasses. The bag and canvas were dropped and the painter began to undress. The water was cool and refreshing. For a brief moment, the old one felt a peculiar sensation of youth. A seagull landed on a piece of drift wood nearby and stared awkwardly at the man. The painter studied it and decided that they were not much different. The man ducked under the water. When he again reached the surface he saw that the seagull had flown away, and realized that they were even more alike than he had thought. He swam back to shore to lay down in the sand and think. He thought deeply and when he was came back to reality he wished he had brought things to fish with.
After dressing the lonely man determined that it was almost noon and that he was hungry. Noting that he had no food and that he had no desire to paint he decided to read.
The novel was by a Russian author whose name he did not recognize. It wasn’t any good but the painter decided that he should keep reading in order to keep his mind off things of a less enjoyable nature.
He eventually fell asleep with the book upon his chest. When he woke, he studied the familiar shifting of greens and blues in the water and finally decided to paint. He had perfected the shades of green and blue and painted a sublime body of water with a field of boats drifting in the wind through adversity.
The old man put his tools in order and decided to return home. He decided that it had been a good day. His mind floated back to the seagull that had been drifting in the surf and he laughed to himself as he thought about life.
Andrew Miller
The night had left the flowers covered with a shade of dew. The painter sat on a rock and drew until he was overtaken with boredom. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was awake so early in the morning and was even more unsure of why each day he seemed to have a more awkward sleeping pattern than the day before.
He walked through the door, still open from when he had come out, and made coffee. As he drank, he decided that he would go to the shore.
He stretched a canvas over a frame and stapled it in place. He gathered paint and brushes in a bag and set off through the forest. The leaves were just beginning to develop a tone of autumn that only Michigan can deliver. An artists dream, he thought.
The old man tumbled over one last heap of brush before reaching the welcoming scent and sounds of the lake. He walked down the white dune and through a thin layer of grasses. The bag and canvas were dropped and the painter began to undress. The water was cool and refreshing. For a brief moment, the old one felt a peculiar sensation of youth. A seagull landed on a piece of drift wood nearby and stared awkwardly at the man. The painter studied it and decided that they were not much different. The man ducked under the water. When he again reached the surface he saw that the seagull had flown away, and realized that they were even more alike than he had thought. He swam back to shore to lay down in the sand and think. He thought deeply and when he was came back to reality he wished he had brought things to fish with.
After dressing the lonely man determined that it was almost noon and that he was hungry. Noting that he had no food and that he had no desire to paint he decided to read.
The novel was by a Russian author whose name he did not recognize. It wasn’t any good but the painter decided that he should keep reading in order to keep his mind off things of a less enjoyable nature.
He eventually fell asleep with the book upon his chest. When he woke, he studied the familiar shifting of greens and blues in the water and finally decided to paint. He had perfected the shades of green and blue and painted a sublime body of water with a field of boats drifting in the wind through adversity.
The old man put his tools in order and decided to return home. He decided that it had been a good day. His mind floated back to the seagull that had been drifting in the surf and he laughed to himself as he thought about life.
