The Artist

Midst the twisting streets, buzzing motor scooters, leaf-shaded cafes, faded roof tiles, cigarette smoke, ancient buildings he sat on a patch of sidewalk his belongings haphazardly strewn all around him.
A vagabond artist noted for a life of travel between festivals, Franz solely lived from the coins tossed next to his drawings by foreign tourists in awe of his masterpieces.

He sat alone in his own bubble tracing lines to match the cathedral round the corner he was attempting to replicate. His board hitched on the cobbled street just beside the city square, his palette colored bright today he was living out dreams on a sheet.

Long forgotten were the fights with Martha over the scanty money he produced yesterday, the begging eyes of his two little sons craving for a loaf of bread to fill their empty stomachs. Today he didn’t have a care in the world about the self imposed deadlines, the marketing, the need to produce good art for his existence.

As the colors started to bend, he slaved away on the canvas perfecting every line, smoothening out the edges, darkening the shadowed parts.
High accolades from the crowd filled the square as more and more tourists thronged around Franz staring at the impossible, murmurs of “how he did it?” Some taking photographs to show to their friends and family. Some sympathized, others just stood in awe of him.
People were more interested in seeing the cathedral through his oil and pastel rather than through the sanctity of their naked eyes. With the rattling of coins, they sure did guarantee a safe escape from the painful words Martha never failed to spit out at him.
As the last rays of light scanned over the place, he hustled away from his usual spot, cleaning up the mess of paint and hurried over to his den.
On the way he stopped by the local bakery, tugging along a warm loaf of bread with his baggage of tools. The warm bread felt heavier than even the sturdy wooden board, bet the kids would rush over to their papa with shouts of joy.
As he walked past the dark waters of the Seine, his mind wandered off to the days when life was so much easier.

All he now knew was that the night was to be a good one, a lot like they used to be before the night when he lost one eye.
Yes, tonight he would sleep in peace, he would glimpse his angels savor the bread, he would kiss Martha good night and rock her to sleep, tonight he would be intoxicated by memories and feelings, a very rare event in his two dimensional life of a struggling artist.

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This is written for Ruhani's Mindbowing May DAY 16!, check out you'll!
I started off with the first inspiration; the second inspiration just happened to find its place somewhere in between. Yes I be total coolness B)
Anyway SOME BIG STUFF happened in the past few days blog-wise. More on that later, maybe on my next post here.

Love :*
Sam B