The Artist’s Tale
by Scott Pavelle
Once there was an artist, perhaps the greatest who’s ever been. A poet, a painter, a sculptor, a chef; he made things the like of which the world had never seen.This artist had a most wondrous patron who supplied him with everything an artist could desire; canvas, paints and marbles from high in the mountains on which he could carve night and day, until at last he would finish the piece, and men would place it in the town square and swear that the Sun herself would pause in her path and shine just a little brighter to see such beauty come in the world.
But in the course of time the patron grew old; and finally died; and his son, Pietro, had no such love of art. No, Pietro loved sport and gaming and gambling and racing, and cared far more for the boy in his stables who could run like the wind then ever he did for an artist. And so the canvases stopped. And the marbles. And the artist began to grow concerned. He sent notes to the young master – one, two, three notes a day – but there was never any answer.
So the summer passed, and the autumn too, until at last there came a night in the winter when snow had fallen and covered the earth in a heavy blanket. Then word came to the artist that he was summoned to see the Young Master.
“But the Lord Pietro never wants to see me!”
“Well, he wants to see you now – and I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.”
So with a brief smile the artist hugged a cloak about him, stamped into his boots and dashed across the snowy courtyard. He came to where the young master was entertaining some of his friends.
“Ahh. The Artist. We have been waiting for you. I understand that you have been unhappy with the lack of marble. Well, God has provided! All the world is covered with marble, free for the taking. Go – go and make me your finest masterpiece. I wish to demonstrate your genius. For my friends.”
To this, of course, there could be no reply. But as he left the artist’s hands shook. With rage. And humiliation. He, who had made such masterpieces – to make a thing of snow? That would vanish with the first touch of the morning sun? It was . . . outrageous. He wouldn’t do it. He would not do it! But then, as he stepped outside, he began to think again. ‘No – no, perhaps I should. Perhaps . . . I should give the Young Master exactly what he’s asked for.’
And so he went out to the courtyard, rolled up two great snowballs and piled them high to the height of a man. Then he stood back – and gazed at it until at last he could see the figure that was trapped inside. And then – then he simply removed everything that didn’t belong.
The spell of his work came upon him, as it had not done for all those long months, and Time vanished. What finally brought him out of it was a low gasp that came from behind, just as he was almost done. He turned and saw the young master, the lord Pietro – his face as white as the snow.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Oh my God. Not in snow. You can’t have done that – Oh God, not in snow!”
And then the young master, the lord Pietro? He fell to his knees and stained the snow with his tears.
Now this, as they say, is a true story. And indeed, never again did Michelangelo Buonarroti lack for marble in the home of the Medici.
Scott P. Pavelle, Esq.
355 Fifth Avenue
Suite 1200
Pittsburgh, PA 15222
Direct: (412) 325-2535
E-mail: scottp@pavellelaw.com
Web Page: www.PavelleLaw.com
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Scott Pavelle, Professional Storyteller and Author 