The Artist Who Didn't Paint People

Peter was a man who hated people. Among those who knew him, some believed that it was due to his difficult childhood exacerbated by his parents’ divorce. Others believed it stemmed from his fiancé leaving him at the altar while she ran off to elope with his best man. The general public, unaware of the circumstances of his life, assumed it was a symptom of that particular strain of madness called genius.

Peter was a painter, and he was a master of the art – or so the critics would say. Everyone could agree that his technique was without defect. His compositions were flawless, his use of shades and tones was impeccable, and every brushstroke was perfect. Peter’s landscapes were known throughout the world. The problem was, nobody wanted to own one.

“Your paintings are flawless, Peter, but they’re so utterly lifeless.” His agent Adam would say. “Put some people in those scenes, why don’t you.”

“I hate people, Adam.” Peter would reply flatly. “Why would I want to paint them?”

“There has to be somebody you don’t hate.”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Come on, do you really hate everyone? Even your dear old mother?”

“Yes, even my mother.”

“Even me?”

“Especially you.”

Sophie was a woman who loved people. Perhaps it was because she came from a large family. Maybe it was simply her disposition. She was always doing for others to the exclusion of all self interest. Even as a girl, Sophie would make great sacrifices for others. She never complained when her siblings got the bigger portions of dessert. She never spoke up when her siblings were getting more attention than her. When Paul broke her heart by asking her best friend Audrey to the prom instead of her, she simply cried quietly by herself. She was used to being overlooked, and it was unlikely that her situation would ever change.

However, nobody ever writes a story about a likely event.

It was a cool autumn morning, and the leaves had already changed colors. Before long the trees would be barren, so there was only a small window of time for Peter to capture this beautiful scene and immortalize it in one of his paintings. He found a secluded spot in the park, far away from the pesky public who lauded his work but refused to pay for the enjoyment of it. The spot he chose was near the top of a hill, overlooking a pond. The brilliant gold and red of the trees on the far shore reflected in the still water. Peter’s brush would soon do far better justice to this scene than what words alone can accomplish.

Peter was setting up his easel as he surveyed the landscape, when a solitary figure wandered into his scene. He groaned inwardly, annoyed by the fact that such a beautiful view should be spoiled by the presence of such a loathsome creature. Then, despite his strong aversion, he felt compelled to take a second glance.

What a singular discovery! She wasn’t startlingly beautiful, but the contours of her face held a certain aesthetic appeal. More than that, however, there was a defining aura of sadness and isolation about her. Peter felt something prick his heart which had long been unused. An unfamiliar force propelled him into action. Gathering up his easel and other supplies, Peter hurried down the hill towards the woman.

“I’m sorry, am I disturbing your scenery?” Sophie asked as she saw the painter approach.

“Yes.” Peter responded bluntly, before quickly correcting himself. “I mean no. That is…”

“Please excuse me.” Sophie said timidly. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Umm, no, wait.” Peter stuttered. The woman paused and eyed him quizzically.