A LAND WITHOUT FIREFLIES - Short Story 11 (Short Stories for Travelers and Wanderers)

 

When I was a kid this village was filled with fireflies. Now there were hardly any. Actually, there seem to be far fewer insects now than there were a few decades ago. In just half a lifetime a lot seems to have changed. Maybe it was my imagination, so in one of my foolish ventures, I decided to find out more about insects.

One of the people who contributed most profoundly to our understanding of insects was E. O. Wilson, an American biologist and entomologist often described as the world’s leading authority on ants. Born in 1929, Wilson grew up fascinated by the natural world, especially the small creatures most people overlooked. An accident in childhood left him partially blind in one eye, limiting his ability to study birds or mammals—but it sharpened his attention to insects, which could be observed up close. What began as a limitation became a lifelong vocation. 

Insects seem to be as different from human beings as it is possible to be. To begin with, they don’t have a heart, lungs, blood as we know it, a skeleton, or much of anything else. They are clearly built very differently. They have a tough exoskeleton and six legs and this seems to be their most prominent feature. They were the first creatures to fly. You don’t have to be an expert to realize that they took a very different evolutionary line very early on. What they are however is essential to all life on earth. They are the food for birds and fish, every terrestrial and freshwater ecosystem relies on them. Oddly out of the millions of different varieties of insects, only about a few hundred have taken to the sea. (The sea is dominated by other kinds of arthropods like crustaceans.) Even plants rely on insects for pollination. It seems that they are declining at an unprecedented rate that some scientists call the global Insect Apocalypse. But there are so many varieties of them that scientists don’t know exactly by how much. Some scientists estimate that they are disappearing at the rate of 2% per year. That is a lot in 20 years.

To begin with, bees are in peril, and so are another order of insects, butterflies and moths (order Lepidoptera), and beetles (Coleoptera), and freshwater insects like dragonflies and damselflies. Loss of habitat, insecticides, climate change, and pollution are thought to be the reasons. It is believed that if insects go so will their predators like many kinds of birds and fish and other animals further up the food chain. Many years ago a writer named George Orwell wrote, "By retaining one's childhood love of such things as trees, fishes, butterflies, and toads, one makes a peaceful and decent future a little more probable." A world without butterflies, dragonflies, beetles and many birds, fish and toads would be a sad world indeed.

A FASCINATING LAND - Short Story 11 (Short Stories for Travelers and Wanderers)

 

Many years ago, I visited the Dehiwela Zoo. This is a beautiful zoo, that even has a lake where pelicans and other birds visit. Naturally, the exhibits featured only vertebrates—animals with backbones and skeletons. Even with my limited knowledge at the time, I knew there existed another vast world of creatures: invertebrates, some so strange that they seemed almost alien. One day, curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to find out more.

All animals are classified into about 35 major groups known as phyla, though only around nine are widely familiar. All vertebrates—mammals, birds, fish, reptiles, and amphibians—belong to a single phylum: Chordata. That realization alone is humbling. But what about the rest?

Take phylum Mollusca, for instance. A snail may appear unremarkable at first glance, but its body plan is distinctive: a muscular foot, a mantle that often produces a shell, and surprisingly complex eyes. Like many invertebrates, snails lack a spinal cord or a single centralized brain. Instead, they possess clusters of neurons called ganglia, each responsible for different bodily functions. Slugs, close relatives of snails, seem to live by a simple rule—“just hang on”—constantly battling dehydration, predators, and the elements.

It comes as a surprise, then, that one of the most intelligent animals on Earth—the octopus—is also a mollusk. I once read a strangely convincing account by a renowned science fiction writer suggesting that octopuses might have developed advanced civilizations had they not been confined to the ocean, unable to harness fire or forge tools. Speculative though it may be, the idea lingers. And then there is the giant squid: elusive, haunting, and seemingly drawn straight from a nightmare. Mollusca is, in fact, the second most diverse animal phylum after Arthropoda, comprising roughly 93,000 species.

For a long time, I had thought starfish rather overrated in literature, particularly poetry. That opinion changed one day while wading in the shallow, crystal-clear waters of Trincomalee. I spotted a large orange starfish resting on the seabed. As I moved closer, it glided effortlessly away. The motion was silent, fluid, and utterly magical—unlike anything I had seen before. Starfish, despite their name, are not fish at all but belong to the phylum Echinodermata, along with sea urchins, sea cucumbers, and sand dollars. All members of this group are found exclusively in the sea.

Not all invertebrates inspire such awe. Some are repulsive, some deadly, and others so simple they could easily be mistaken for plants. Consider the sponge, from the phylum Porifera—the simplest of all animals. Its motto might well be “I ain’t going nowhere,” as it remains permanently attached to the seabed. Sponges are multicellular and heterotrophic, lacking cell walls yet they possess no true tissues or organs. Their bodies are shaped for one purpose alone: to allow water to flow efficiently through a central cavity, delivering nutrients before exiting through an opening. And that, remarkably, is enough.

If invertebrates ever seem dull, insects quickly put that notion to rest. Insects belong to Arthropoda, the most diverse animal phylum of all. This vast group also includes centipedes and millipedes, spiders and scorpions, prawns and crabs. At first glance, it is hard to imagine an insect and a crab as relatives—but look closely at their jointed limbs and segmented bodies, and the family resemblance begins to emerge.

That, perhaps, is the quiet power of classification. It reveals hidden connections beneath surface appearances, reminding us that the living world is far stranger, richer, and more interconnected than it first appears. What once seemed alien or insignificant becomes, with understanding, deeply familiar—and endlessly fascinating.

THE ART OF THE MUNDANE - Short Story 10 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

Many years ago I read a book about a Local painter featuring his life and work. The only way to describe his paintings would be “Very Boring, bordering on uninspired". Almost all his paintings showed one or more coconut trees on a beach with the sea on the background, painted with different shades of a dull brown, hardly the kind of thing that would excite anyone. Sometimes an old fashioned figure would stand near the pensive coconut tree, sometimes a boat would float aimlessly in the distant sea, sometimes the moon or sun would look down moodily upon it all, as if wondering why this painting was even created. The question that comes to any reasonable persons mind is why on Earth didn’t someone stop him from doing, thousands upon thousands of paintings in such colors, with such depressing draftsmanship. It was the kind of painting that could be used to put someone to sleep. But here was the thing, these paintings were incredibly haunting. Many years after viewing them they kind of remained in your mind, attached in a strange way to your nervous system. And I suddenly realized after about two decades that these were the most memorable paintings I’ve ever seen. You got the strange feeling that you have seen this seascape before, maybe in an old movie or maybe in a dream. But you could never be sure. No doubt this artist was a genius.

One day I was talking with someone about this painter, when he said that it reminded him of British artist L.S. Lowry. L.S. Lowry occupies a unique place in British art. Often called the painter of the Industrial North, Lowry chronicled the everyday life of working people in and around Manchester during a period of profound social and industrial change. His work, instantly recognisable for its simplified figures—popularly known as “matchstick men”—and stark urban landscapes, transformed factory chimneys, mills, streets, and crowds into enduring works of art. Lowry’s paintings are often described as naïve, but this label is misleading. His compositions were carefully structured, with crowds arranged rhythmically across the canvas and buildings reduced to bold, architectural forms. He frequently used a limited palette—whites, greys, blacks, muted reds and blues—to evoke the bleak yet energetic atmosphere of industrial towns. After seeing the paintings of these two artists, I realised for the first time that even mundane things can be used as subject matter to create exciting paintings.

ADVENTURES IN THE ART WORLD - Short Story 9 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

The best Art book I have ever read, was a relatively small book as art books go by British artist, Adrian Hill. How so many good ideas could be packed into such a small book is amazing. This book doesn’t tell you everything you need to know, but the drawings in particular are so “clever”, that it inspires you to take up drawing and painting. 

Adrian Keith Graham Hill (1895-1977), enlisted in the Army at the start of World War One, where due to his artistic abilities he was assigned to the Scouting and Sniping section. He had to sketch the enemy in front of allied trenches, in no mans land. Later Hill recalled such a typical patrol as follows: 

“I advanced in short rushes, mostly on my hands and knees, with a sketching kit dangling around my neck. As I slowly approached, the wood gradually took a more definite shape, and as I crept nearer I saw that what was hidden from my own line, now revealed itself as a cunningly contrived observation post in one of the battered trees.”

In 1938 while recovering from tuberculosis at a sanatorium, he found that drawing nearby objects from his hospital bed greatly aided in his recovery. This led to Occupational Therapy being introduced in Hospitals, and Hill was invited to teach drawing and painting to injured soldiers and later civilian patients. Hill believed that Art helped divert patients and relieved their mental distress. He also believed that Art appreciation aided recovery and this led to a picture lending scheme (of famous artists work). Hill himself along with other artists talked to patients about art works. Hill coined the term (Art Therapy), and published his work in his 1942 book, Art Versus Illness. Hill published many books about drawing and painting and was the first artist commissioned by the Imperial War Museum in 1917.

THE MAGIC OF SURREALISM - Short Story 8 (Short Stories for Artist, Poets and those who Wander)

 

I didn't study art and am not an expert in it, so when I first saw Salvador Dali's paintings, I was astounded and wondered what it was all about. Surrealism was an art and literary movement that began in the 1920s. Its leader Andre Breton had earlier worked in a hospital and had even met Sigmund Freud; perhaps it was this encounter that got him interested in the study of the unconscious, for he founded the Surrealist movement, which he considered a revolutionary movement. Surrealism seeks to free the unconscious to express itself. The first technique was automatic writing which Breton expressed in 1924 as pure psychic automatism - by which the actual processes of thought could be expressed. It is the dictation of thought free from control from reason and any aesthetic or moral considerations. If this seems odd, it gets odder still when we view the surrealist paintings. Everyone accepts that something illogical has no value, but the objective of this movement is exactly this – to create unnerving, illogical scenes to free the unconscious - Nothing less. 

Amazed by what I saw and read about Surrealism, I decided to invent a new branch of Surrealism that I call the "Mistake Method". I drew landscapes following this strange theory. It was an enthralling experience. In an attempt to draw realistic or impressive drawings and avoid mistakes, the artist sometimes loses the thrill of drawing and painting, and his output drops. However, in this new surrealist method I used, mistakes are left as they are to make the drawing more energetic. If a line goes wrong, as it usually does when drawing freely without much effort, it is not erased, but another more "correct" line is drawn. The first line adds energy to the drawing, while the second line makes it realistic. It was incredibly liberating. I found the true purpose of art - to express myself and be happy.

A few years ago, I read a book by a famous scientist. In it, he says that while fields like physics were truly profound, artists pretend to have done something great by describing their work in a profound way, even going to the extent of using extravagant names, when in reality, it was all nonsense. If that was so, I wondered why some artists' work sells for hundreds of millions of dollars while this scientist's books fetch him a relatively small amount. The reason for this is that there are at least some instances when an artist can capture our imagination far more than a famous physicist can, and when this happens, it's not called nonsense; it's called magic.

ALL THAT HEAVEN WILL ALLOW - Short Story 7 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

Many years ago, I tried my hand at painting, like most people who start out my paintings weren't always good, and many of them were just plain bad, but of course they all looked good to me. I was one of the people in this world who couldn't see anything bad in anything I painted, and unfortunately I had this weakness. It was perhaps an inability to judge rather than a high opinion of myself. In any case it felt good to draw hundreds of paintings almost as good as Vincent van Gogh and a few even better than him. 

So I wanted to see the Director of one of the few companies that buy paintings. It was perfectly built building with several floors of Teak and it did not have an elevator but a finely built staircase. In every floor there were marble statues and paintings of every kind, oils, acrylics, water colors and drawings that took my breath away.

But there was also a certain coldness, perhaps it was the air conditioning, but the receptionist was so distant that I felt she would have regarded me a little better if I had worn shoes and worn my best shirt. And the sales girl though friendly was nervous, and I wondered whether it was my overly enthusiastic way of speaking or whether she was looking over my shoulder to see if someone was coming. And strangely there were few people in the building but the people who worked there.

 Assertiveness was something I was practicing on then, and I wanted to give the impression I was important in case they take my position lightly, so in my best voice I asked the sales girl how many paintings they sold everyday. She thought about it for a minute and said “the question you must ask is how many paintings we sell a month”. The manager of the fifth floor a big middle aged man with a thick mustache spied on me, perhaps he was worried I would nick a painting, he walked up to me and was engaged in small talk, but lost all interest in me when he realized that what I really wanted to do was to sell rather than buy, and he walked away without a word.

But what really surprised me was the director, a women of such singular coldness that I wondered how she became the director. Her great grandfather was a very clever man who had made a fortune in the art business. You could see his photo hanging there with profound, intelligent, cow-like eyes.  Unfortunately several bad marriages over successive generations had led to Mrs. Heaven.  She considered the paintings poorly and at first rejected one of the paintings, and seemed to accept the other three. She considered again and rejected another, and a while later decided all four were not good. She said that compared to the paintings they had on display some by well known artists two of my paintings looked childish, and the other two looked like posters so the customers might think they are not genuine paintings. What I really wanted to ask her is which customers was she talking about for in the three hours I spent in the building I hadn’t seen any. Then she said “I could accept them, but they would end up in a corner in this building and probably get lost”. And then she said in her perfect accent “If you come again make sure you make an appointment first.”  But what really blew the wind off my sails was as I was walking away the paintings tucked and heavy in my hands she asked in a very firm voice “weren’t you the one who called and complained about our water color paper.”

About three years earlier I did complain but I was impeccably polite and I did not know that she was the director. I went home disappointed and did not paint for another month, but then a strange thought came to my mind. What if the director was right, what if my paintings were really not good. And in any case assuming that she accepted them,  and they were eventually sold to a customer (I get my 70 percent and the company gets 30 percent only if a customer buys it), I would make very little money on them because the materials used for fine art are very expensive, and in the island I live in few people would buy a painting and the few that do would pay very little for it.

I decided to paint something that would cost very little, but at the same time look as good as an expensive painting. I tried for a month but could not achieve it, but one day in a small shop I bought a pen, which was only as expensive as an ordinary ball point pen but the flow of ink was so fast that it could be used for quick drawings. I used this pen to draw on paper larger than the A4 size. I also developed a quick method of drawing which meant my output would be at least 5 drawings per day. My drawings resembled etchings and had a strange energy to them, and as far as I know I am the only person who uses this method of drawing.

When the director saw my drawings it only took her a few seconds to accept all ten. And a customer bought all ten the very next day. The drawings cost only a hundredth as much as my earlier paintings and I could draw fifteen times as many, and because it is so cheap almost everyone wanted to buy. And the lesson I learned from it is “if at first you don’t succeed try again, but make sure you use a different method and also you never fail until you fail to try”

THE NIGHT - Short Story 6 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

Many years ago I was returning home one night when I realized that I had misplaced the key. Forcing my way in would mean the wrath of the landlord so I wondered how I could get in. The only way was to get the duplicate key from the landlord who lived five miles away, but I could not go there. For civil disturbances in the night had led to the imposition of a sudden curfew, which meant nobody could be on the road after 9:00 PM, and it was 8:58 PM. Could there be a locksmith nearby thought I, but before I could walk to the gate the watch beeped 9:00.

The night was infinitely dark and strange, it seemed that everyone had gone to bed, and switched off all the lights. The road was deserted except for a lone cow and the yellowish light of the distant lamp post in the junction showed that the cow was half asleep, but even that was not clear for cows always look like that. A blue green firefly, very rare for this part of the country flew and disappeared behind a leaf, which made me aware of the garden. Flowers that bloom at night are usually white, and most have a fragrance. Overhead there were more stars than I had ever seen, and there was a particularly bright reddish star that didn't twinkle. Could it be the Planet Mars, the one they called the red planet, did someone say or did I read somewhere that stars twinkle while planets don’t, or did I just imagine that now. Or could it be Venus, but did I read somewhere that Venus is called the morning star and could be seen only in the early morning. My knowledge of astronomy, like so much else was incomplete, but still I did know more than most people. And didn’t Newton himself once say something like “Knowledge is an endless beach and all I do is pick a pebble here and a sea shell there”. Or was it Michael Faraday, and was he also British. All these thoughts made me tired that I sat down in the garden and couldn’t remember anything after that except the ground felt hard on my head, an annoying cricket made an annoying noise, the smell of grass and marigold flowers and once I imagined that the cow was in the garden.

The hoot of an alarm made me jump, and for a moment I was horrified to find that I was not in bed but outside at night. I went to the gate to see what made that noise, and found that it was the siren for the midnight shift. Although all factories are closed during the curfew, some crucial industries get special permission to operate. 

I didn't feel sleepy but looked up to see whether I could identify any stars. The Great Bear looks more like a Saucepan than a Bear, and Orion is not even aligned, but the Milky Way could be seen clearly, a spectacular whitish path of countless stars just one of which is the Sun. Up ahead what looked like a dim star moved steadily. It moved too slowly for it to be shooting star, which is fast but fleeting. For a moment I thought it could be an Aero-plane flying high up and listened but there was no sound, and I felt certain that it was a communications satellite for even the smallest satellite could be seen from earth when the sun reflects upon it.

I sometimes carry with me a bag which is filled with painting material, so I decided to paint the landscape at night. Very few people paint at night for the colors are dull and it is difficult to tell them apart, but since I was not sleepy I could do nothing else. They are more or less black and white paintings but they still look quite good. Eventually I was so exhausted that I fell asleep. The next day I found the key, it had fallen near the gate so there was no incident with the landlord who would have been really annoyed if he found out that I had lost the key. It was a troublesome night without proper sleep, still I did learn a lot that day.

THE NOVEL - Short Story 5 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

Many years ago I read George Orwell’s novel “Keep the Aspidistra Flying”. Orwell did not like the novel saying - it was one of two or three books he was ashamed of, and he only wrote it because he wanted 100 pounds quickly. But I found the book riveting. Set in the 1930’s , It's the bitter story about Gordon Comstock a man who has declared “war” on the worship of money by leaving a promising job as a copy writer and instead taking a low paying job as a book shop assistant, so that he can write poetry. Unfortunately neither the “war” nor the poetry is going well and he finds himself alone, miserable and in abject poverty.

Living in a different country, at a different time, I had nothing in common with the protagonist but for some reason I could not get the story out of my head. I decided to write a novel like that myself. It would be a story about a struggling writer and it would include poems and short stories I earlier wrote as part of the writers output. It would not be written from beginning to end but would be written in fragments. Later on the fragments would be combined together using narrative techniques to form the whole story. The novel would be written in third person but it would be written in such a way as to give the impression that it was really a first person narrative. Sadly it didn't work out.

I found myself with a lot of fragments that could be not fitted together. My third person – first person method was so complicating that even I did not fully understand it. I tried various methods to move ahead but couldn’t. It was too much of a muddle. In the end the novel disintegrated in my mind. I wondered how much time had been wasted in this desperate attempt to write a novel. Then I realized the true value of the novel. 

The novel had kept me happy during an otherwise sad time when my life had taken a downward spiral. If not for it I would have become inactive and drifted down. For me the value of the novel was not whether it could be published, but how it made me feel. And who knows maybe one day I could turn these “fragments” into a novel publish it.

A ROAD TO REMEMBER - Short Story 4 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

Not long after we entered the Southern Expressway from Colombo, I wondered what I would learn if I observed it through the eyes of an artist. To be honest, I am not really an artist, but more an art enthusiast if there is such a thing. Colours and lines have always fascinated me, and I once had an illusion of writing an art book called “How to make a paper interesting by using just a pen”. So as you'll gather I'm not an expert. However I have great enthusiasm for art which I think makes up for my lack of skills. 

The first thing that struck me on the expressway was how green everything was. Everything that was below the skyline that was not man-made was actually green. I expected the earth to show in many places and rocks to be seen, but this seemed rarely the case. Trees, shrubs, bushes and grass covered everything. I expected the trunks and branches of trees and twigs to be a different colour, but these seemed to hide behind an army of green. Green itself is a confusing colour for me and many other artists. I usually hide my confusion by painting almost everything in sap green with a touch of viridian. But the truth is every species of tree has a different green. Grass normally has a brighter, lighter yellowish green than the leaves of a tree. No matter how much you try to memorise the colours it kind of doesn’t register. Some trees have a weirdly artificial looking green that painting them exactly would make the painting look artificial. . To make matters worse when the sun shines upon it some greens become luminous and some remain the same. But the strangest things is the most luminous and beautiful green you are likely to see anywhere is found in paddy fields. 

Giving up I looked up at the sky. Skies are another thing most amateur artists get wrong. To begin with what colour is the sky in Sri Lanka on a sunny afternoon. Is it cyan, is it Prussian blue or ultramarine.  The truth is I can’t decide. But I think it is safe to say that in a clear blue sky devoid of any clouds the colour is more positive blue at the top of the picture - the portion which we have to raise our eyes in nature - than it is directly above the horizon which is lighter. As for clouds isolated white clouds will have a clearer definition at the top than underneath. The lightest portion is also at the top, while at the bottom they are darker and more indistinct in outline. 

Sometimes during the evening, parts of the cloud attain a slightly fleshy (crimson) appearance, but as the light fades they suddenly attain a uniform grey colour, when this happens, it looks like the cloud has suddenly died. Other parts of the sky may still be colourful, though the clouds themselves seem dead. But the good thing is that when the sun shines the next day, everything will be colourful again. Every dark cloud really has a silver lining.

ON THE ROAD - Short Story 3 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

 

Many years ago I was feeling down, it seemed like all my ships had sunk. But my luck changed one day when I was able to buy a Moped. A Moped stands for motor pedal bike, which meant you could pedal it like a normal bike but it also had a 2 stroke engine. Unlike a normal motor bike you need not wear a helmet which is unpleasant in hot weather, (and need not have a license). But for a small bike it could go faster than anyone expected. My wandering abilities were greatly enhanced for this small bike could take me through the roughest roads.

One day I realized that because people live everywhere the road network crisscrosses the whole island, but even a famous politician would have traveled on less than 3 percent of the roads. This is because most people use only highways and the by roads that lead to their homes, workplace and the homes of friends. So typically a person would have seen only a small fraction of the island they lived in, so I decided to explore some of the obscure roads of my island on my moped, eating at any roadside boutique I came across. Those were carefree days, and how I enjoyed them, and although like most people responsibilities eventually overwhelmed me, I have fond memories of the roads I traveled in the bygone years of my youth. Alas, my moped eventually broke down from over use, and I still have it in my back yard rusting a little more everyday, but I can’t get myself to sell. So when I read Jack Kerouac's novel "On The Road" it really moved me.

When 'On the Road' hit bookshelves in 1957, it wasn’t just a novel—it was a jolt. A literary sparkplug that captured the restless heartbeat of postwar America, Jack Kerouac’s defining work became the anthem of wanderers, outsiders, and anyone who felt the country’s highways humming with possibility. More than half a century later, the book still feels alive. Wild. Impulsive. Human. And, most importantly, free. Kerouac wrote On the Road in a feverish burst of creativity, famously typing the first draft on a 120-foot roll of paper over the course of three weeks. The result was a novel that reads like the country feels when you’re barreling across it: loose, musical, and honestly imperfect. The story follows Sal Paradise and the magnetic, reckless Dean Moriarty as they hitchhike, bus-hop, and speed across America, from New York to Denver, San Francisco to New Orleans, chasing experiences that might explain something about life, themselves, or simply the next sunrise. Beneath the movement lies Kerouac’s aching search for meaning in a world changing faster than anyone could fully grasp. The book challenged conformity, questioning authority, and injecting music inspired spontaneity into prose. But Kerouac himself was a shy, disciplined writer with the soul of a wanderer. A man steeped in Catholic spirituality yet drawn to adventure. A poet who romanticized freedom but struggled with its consequences.

Kerouac's life mirrored his art: long journeys, intense friendships, restless searching. Yet fame unexpectedly crushed him. Despite becoming the reluctant voice of a generation, he felt misunderstood: celebrated for promoting rebellion, though he believed he was writing about spiritual yearning and human connection.

THE IMPORTANCE OF IMPERFECTION - Short Story 2 (Short Stories for Artists, Poets and those who Wander)

Many years ago, I was disappointed with where I was as a painter, it seemed I was going nowhere, horrible days lay ahead. I decided to give up painting altogether and do something like hiking. It was an incredible experience but most people said I was half mad to do such a thing. Unfortunately people take a dull view of hiking in my country and during those troubled times hiking seemed a risky thing to do. So I gave up hiking as a pleasant but unattainable past time. I wondered what I could do. I wondered whether there was some theory that when applied would lead to interesting paintings. So I decided to analyze the paintings of famous artists to try to find a clue to develop my theory. For many months I tried without luck, but one day I found the paintings of Vincent van Gogh.

Van Gogh seems to have been and oddity almost from the beginning. Childhood photos show him staring blankly at a distance. As a child he was serious, quiet and thoughtful. After working unsuccessfully as an art dealer he became a missionary and drifted into solitude and ill health. Perhaps in desperation he took up painting at the somewhat mature age of 27. Not only did he suffer from mental illness and poverty but he often neglected his physical health, did not eat properly and drank heavily. But what he created over the next ten years is astounding, 2100 art works including 860 paintings, which were so good that he became one of the most famous and influential figures in the history of Western art.

But what struck me was that most of his paintings had an element of roughness even crudeness. Take Vincent van Gogh’s “The Church at Auvers” for example, the whole building is crooked and the colors unnatural. But what would have happened if he painted it straight using natural colors, then it would be like a million other architectural drawings, competent but boring. I felt that the real secret behind a really good painting was a certain ugliness mingled cleverly with a really impressive element. The impressive element makes the painting realistic while the crudeness energizes the painting making the whole painting interesting. This was good news for me because I am one of those people in this world who is too lazy or too incompetent to draw buildings perfectly.

I do not know if my theory is correct but I used this theory to paint and came up with some interesting paintings. Of course not everyone was impressed some people called some of my paintings crude and some called them ugly outright. But the important thing was for the first time in many years I felt like painting again. When Vincent van Gogh wrote "Art is to console those who are broken by life" maybe he was writing about me.