Blues, reds, and greens. Purples, yellows, and oranges. A mixture of colors, surrounded by a dark antique frame, hung from a bare expanse of white wall. It was a masterpiece like no other, spread out from all of the others, but hosting the most attention. In the end, however, it produced a whole new era of artistry.
Day in and day out, people passed through the dimly lit corridor, halting in their tracks immediately to bask in the lone paintings' glory. A picture was what they saw; a story was what they imagined. Different from all viewpoints and to every individual, it somehow gripped each heart as its own with several emotions leaking out. It was beautiful.
'The creator' remained unknown--the same letters intertwined together in a loopy and elegant fashion at the bottom most left-hand corner. It described their need of obscurity, but the title also recognized him or herself at a different level. The onlookers would stare in wonder, sometimes for hours. The only similarity they shared was shown clearly upon their faces. Who was 'The Creator?' And how did they paint something so wonderful? The only issue was that their questions would remain just that, as questions. The world may never know of the genius behind the painting.
Little did they know, 'The Creator' was watching--always watching. Wearing various disguises--either man, woman, or child--throughout every day and night, he or she was within the middle of the crowd, disregarded from the rest. And that was how 'The Creator' wanted it, to stay invisible, while the art--though it too was invisible to the minds' eye--was not.
It wasn't about the fame or the fortune. It never was about that. 'The Creator' didn't need it, or want it, for it would only make one greedy as it always had. 'The Creator' wished for the talent to be recognized instead, not the person he or she was.
On that particular day, 'The Creator' was dressed as a wise old woman. She wore a dark green trench coat fastened down the length of her body, and extending to just above her knees where her black slacks and boots became visible. For an older woman, she had no wrinkles stretched over her face because of all the make-up she applied to 'cover' them. To complete her attire, she had on a dark grey, curly haired wig that was tucked away under a lovely green hat. Overall, she was just another average lady, waiting to feast her eyes on the prize.
It was mid-morning--when the art gallery usually opened--and as expected, hundreds of people--some new, some regulars--surrounded the entrance. 'The Creator' was located near the front. Clutching onto the handbag she had brought with her more tightly, she inched forward when the doors were finally unlocked. Like any other morning, the spot directly before the painting was filled up and extending out until the entire room was jam-packed.
Out of nowhere, 'The Creator' was pushed aside by a crazed fan trying to get to the front for a better look. It wasn't out of the ordinary for that to happen, until he had approached the painting with a lighter in his hand.
"What are you doing?!" shouted out most.
"I'm going to light this painting on fire," the man answered plainly. "unless, 'The Creator' shows themself!"
"Do you really think the artist would be here?" someone asked.
Without an answer, the guy lit the lighter and brought it closer to the painting. Without warning, everyone else became one as a mob and rushed towards him. 'The Creator' had no choice but to do the same. She was knocked off her feet and thrown into the front, her clothes disheveled and wig torn off.
"STOP!" 'The Creator,' now a young man, ordered, getting back up to his feet. I'm 'The Creator!"
"You?" they all asked.
"Yes, but I never wanted it to be like this. I wanted my painting to do what it did: and create a story. The real creator has always been you."
What do you see when you look into its colorful depth?
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