h i s t o i r e

Once upon a time there was an artist. As a child the world had been full of light and wonder which he longed to capture and recreate, turning eventually into a young painter who had remarkable technical skills, by the accounts of all the masters of the art. He was the best in three generations, they said, yet he struggled daily to find inspiration: there was no figure he could not replicate, no scene he could not recreate. How terrible, the critics said, that at such a young age, a man with such talent has lost his spark.

He graduated from his Academy and, to sustain a living, took work which he despised: painting under commission of the masters of a union he most certainly distrusted. Drink and depression became his companions, and so many said he'd go the way of the artist, and waste away into obscurity. His works became formulaic, devoid of light.

"We are building a new ballet house," his masters told him, one day, "where only the best shows of the State are to be performed," they said, "and we would like you to paint the mural."

He agreed. It was a commission and it paid for his alcohol, his rent, his miserable existence. "You will paint," they said, "scenes from our opening ballet, to commemorate the event for all of history."

And he agreed, visiting the stage and the rehearsals to take sketches for the final product.

It was just another commission, but perhaps it changed the universe.

At one rehearsal, as he took notes of the forms and figures of all the dancers in their scenes, covering the pages of his sketchbooks with one figure after another, one woman fluttered down a red silk banner to the floor.

He began to sketch, but no -- this wasn't quite the way the light struck her hair; no, that was not the shape of her lips. Were her eyes green? It was difficult to tell, from such a distance. So he moved several rows closer, crossing out page after page of attempt to capture the one woman in the pages of his sketchbook, for taking the time to erase each failure only slowed him down in his task.

"Who is she?" He asked, later, whispering in the ear of the ballet's manager.

"That is our top ballerina," the woman answered. "Her name is Estelle."