The Paintings : Four

On days like these looking at the same four walls pressed in and squeezed the breath out of his lungs. He needed to break out and share the same air as other people, plus he needed money to buy food and supplies. Today he would grab a small easel and a wooden case filled with brushes and paint and walk down to the Seine. He tried to pick sunny days for these outings. Sitting with his back to the sun and watching the barges float down the river, watching the people coalesce around the book sellers made him feel human and maybe even a little bit happy. It was a perfect setting for selling ones soul to the tourists and passers by.

He setup his easel on the Quai de la Touenelle, with a view of the back side of Notre Dame. A painting such as this would sell quickly and fetch a handsome sum, enough for a week worth of food and some paint and canvas. These little prosaic dabbles were not anything he felt compelled to burn. He purposefully painted as if he was a child, and put little effort into the work. Many of these tourist paintings sat on top of his true works of art that had escaped the fire place. He would paint over them with black, and reuse the canvas. Many of these hidden gems have ended up in basements and attics, bathrooms and dusty dens. Unknown to the owners are buried masterpieces among the greatest art the world had ever seen. Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, Rousseau's La Bohémienne Endormie were comparably to what sat underneath the black mask and splashes of cathedrals and river boats. He got a perverse pleasure knowing that some of his work would survive, but the world could not get at them. They were safe from greedy art dealers and bourgeois pedestrians who could brag to friends as if they had a hand in the creation.

"Monsieur, I think you can paint much better than that" said the voice over Desiderio's shoulder. A little startled he looked back to see a tall man smoking a cigarette. Dressed in what was once a nice suit and a tattered pair of brown shoes. This bearded stranger stood cool, looking down at the trivial painting. After the initial shock of being spoken to, Desiderio took a breath and smiled at the man.

"What makes you say that?" asked the painter, returning to his dabbling.
"The way you hold your brush, the way you mix your colors, the brush strokes" said the stranger in a matter of fact relaxed voice. Desidero could tell this man was comfortable with people.
"Are you a painter?" asked Desiderio.
"I am many things, some would call me a painter, some a writer, to many I am an anarchist"
"You would be a busy man then" replied Desiderio. A bit curious at a man who would tell a stranger that he wished to turn Paris upside down, and then write about it.
The man took the last long drag on the cigarette, dropped it to the ground and put his foot on it and slowly twisted his foot as if taking pleasure in snuffing it out.
"I just have one question for you monsieur" asked the anarchist.
"Yes" replied the painter.
"What is underneath that painting you will sell to the tourists?"