He`s been standing in front of the easel for quite a long time. His arms crossed, his eyes staring at the flickering dance of candlelight on a canvas. Like a gardener who is looking around his space before making it a lush landscape.

Finally, he snatched out a brush – and a wide emerald-green smear stretched across the harsh canvas. It was followed by another touch, then another, and so on – more delicate and accurate, getting faster and more certain. The artist barely had time to mix the colors, trying to capture that vivid picture out of his head: silver ripples on the water, soft braids of willow branches, light silhouettes of summer buildings buried in the green.

All consumed with his work, he remained deaf to everything: a gathering crowd of uninvited guests, long stares and little whispers behind his back. Someone even started to dig through his paints and brushes to learn his secret technique. Other men frowned thoughtfully at his every gesture and keep praising and criticizing without a stop. But with every new stroke the picture became more and more alive, making the crowd cheer and applaud in an exalted manner. The History herself came to take a look at a new masterpiece, accompanied by old Time in a stone-washed coat. The picture was not finished yet, but an intricate frame of interwined fates had already started to cover it.

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The very last stroke − and they grabbed the painting out of his hands, the golden thalers of praise scattering clearly on the floor. However, the artist could not hear neither jangling of coins nor applause. He gave up his own hearing as an offering to the great spirit of art. He couldn`t give his eyesight or his ability to speak – otherwise how was he supposed to protect his beautiful paintings? But the hearing was the only thing he could do without. And so he stood in front of a new blank canvas, totally indifferent to the temptations of life, ready to strive again with his brush and colours of the soul.