There was a folded newspaper on the coffee table, a smoldering pipe in the ashtray and an annoying skipping sound, like the phonograph needle had reached the end of the record and it was now just bumping against the edge of the label.
A dust-filled ray of sunlight crossed the room and was presently warming the sleeping dog, who was all too familiar with the heavy scent of pipe tobacco.
A book had been set with its pages draped over the arm of the sofa, as if the entire couch needed to be used as a bookmark. The only other sound in the house was the ticking of the grandfather clock, and even that noise seemed to blend into the dog’s dream and disappear with the dust particles that danced, if only momentarily, in the sunlight.
None of this, however, existed anywhere but on the canvas. The old man’s hand was steady and precise. His paints were of the highest quality, and everyone admired the detail with which he painted. If you looked at his painting long enough, you’d swear you could see the dog breathing. He painted with a reality usually only seen in the great works of art that hang in museums.
His talent wasn’t so much the subject matter, but rather he would give a feeling to his art. This current work had both a relaxed atmosphere, as well as a nagging anticipation that something was about to happen. Standing three feet away from it, one could sense an impending doom. Something was going to startle the dog awake, someone was about to enter through that far door, or a shot would ring out knocking the book from the couch and it would fall open to the last page – announcing in bold print,
the end
No comments:
Post a Comment