The Clockwork Toymaker and Other Fables

The Artist

Who among us does not know of the majestic city of D--, with its magnificent spires, resplendent bridges and bejewelled facades? Its galleries and museums are world renowned, with their extravagant collections, artefacts from all corners of the earth, pieces both ancient and contemporary. And who has not heard of its thriving and vibrant art scene: writers, poets and painters, protected by patrons, creating work of beauty, wit and creativity, lauded and supported by all its citizens? Indeed, the city is legendary.

And yet, how few have heard the story of its once most famous artist? This story has been lost, hidden by those who did not wish to hear it, faded into obscurity, admonished to corners and told only in whispers. It begins with a painting, some say the artist's finest, although they are wrong. The painting is of a spire, the tallest in the city, and it hangs in the front hall of the central gallery. It is rendered in oils, but it is overlaid with gold and silver leaf. A woman's face is obliquely visible, painted into the sky and merged into the masonry of the building, half there and not, like a ghost, a soul to the structure. They say it was painted for the architect's wife, a tribute to her for suffering so adroitly while the building was being constructed, for stalwartly supporting a man whose vision and dream was constructing the tallest tower in the city. They say the artist was in love with her, but no one is certain. It is clear that the architect was not pleased by the work and petitioned the gallery owner to destroy it, but people are fond of soap opera. The woman, for her part, denied any connection and continued to support her husband.

The artist's next piece was a sculpture, a miniature tower, placed at the base of a urinal. This the gallery owner did refuse to exhibit, so the artist exhibited it himself, in the gallery's ground floor toilet. The piece was removed after only three weeks.

The artist left the city at this time, never to return, and that, for many, is the end of the story. But, it is interesting to know what became of the artist, for this is where the real story begins.

The artist had grown tired of the superficiality of the city. Though art was respected, it was on purely aesthetic grounds. The work being created lacked meaning and depth, more artifice than art, worlds reflecting worlds, speaking of nothing but commercial exuberance, devoid of truth and importance. In this world, the artist could not create; he was artistically bankrupt, with his puerile offerings to his dissenting muse.

For a while he travelled, lost in his thoughts, penitent, morose and sorry for himself. He journeyed to many of the world's most splendid destinations, to lands that were home to Earth's original wonders, to the birth sites of culture and civilisation, but he saw none of it.

His eyes weren't worthy to see, his mind unworthy to understand.

He grew thin, hardly bothering to feed himself. His fine clothes became worn and tattered. His shoulders stooped and his head grew comfortable with its downward gaze. He sat alone in public houses, wallowing in his self-indulgent funk. He had no destination.

One day, by chance, he heard a group of men discussing the state of the world. They were talking of chaos in a nearby land. A despotic tyrant had taken the throne. The country was in turmoil. Taxes had been raised, farmlands decimated in a show of power, wilfully laid bare despite their fertile acres. People could not afford to eat. There was talk of rebellion, but it was quiet and restrained; any who opposed the tyrant were executed, their lifeless bodies cut limb from limb and hung in roadways, their feet sliced lengthways and sideways, the bones exposed and broken, a warning to others who might follow in their footsteps.

The artist listened in rapture, a thought forming in his mind. Here was a land in suffering, a land without hope. He would go to this land and create for the rebels, draw them to strength and solidarity, paint their plight and inspire them to victory. In this land, he would create art that was truly meaningful. He gathered his possessions and resolved to leave immediately.