He started working on The Painting many years ago. He never left it more than a couple of weeks without giving it his undivided attention. And as the years passed, they both grew, differently but together; he realized it was a project that, in fact, would never be finished, at least not until his death. And that was good, comforting. That place, the perfect therapy.

Passion is all consuming and so the rest of his oeuvre took a back seat. A long and severe neglect.


One day, he woke up and the painting was stolen. Just like that.

Never would he see it again, let alone touch it.

The time after the theft was a testing one for him. Days felt like centuries and then years flew by, all the while he kept hanging on the idea of his Masterpiece. The one for which he had devoted his entire pertinent life, his everything. And yet there he was, with nothing to show for.

He fucked up, he thought. Big time. A wasted life. Like a phone that never rang.

Memory is a tricky beast. What detail had he decided upon that part of the painting? What colour did he choose regarding this other section? Had he actually ever worked on the elusive canvas? Nothing was clear anymore. He couldn’t envision it. As if erased in all its glorious details from his mind. All that remained now was a giant blurb of size, emotion and chroma. Wasted indeed he thought.


Inevitably, on one totally forgettable Saturday night, he remembered that on September 1st 2023, a while back, he had realized he was still sinking and swimming in this gossamer grey.

Something had to be done. And so he did.


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