An Allegory of Selfhood
Once, in a village, there lived an old painter. He was very talented, and had perfected his art over many years by painting the landscapes and the animals and the people of the village where he lived. His skill had become so refined in those years that it had become positively supernatural. Where other painters used paint to create their pieces, the old painter would instead dip his brush into the very world itself and transfer it to the canvas. Clouds and trees, a single blade of grass, the texture of a dog’s fur and the twinkle in a man’s eye – he could take it precisely as it was and put it on the canvas.
Eventually, he had painted everything his village could offer, and he travelled far and wide in search of new things to paint. He went to many new and strange places, painted exotic plants and animals, and met all manner of people whose portraits he put to canvas. His reputation was known throughout the land, and his success had made him very wealthy. But there came a day when he had painted everything the world had to offer, and so he returned back to his village to retire.
Despite being very comfortable, the painter grew restless. He felt as if he had lost himself in his retirement. His whole life had been so invested in looking at the things around him and replicating them on the canvas that he had forgotten who he was. All day, he kept asking himself who he was and arriving to no answer, and whenever he asked his friends and acquaintances they would simply respond with “Why, the Painter, of course!”.
One day, while complaining about his problem to one of the villagers, the villager suggested that the painter do a self-portrait. Perhaps by looking at himself for a change he could figure out who he was. This suggestion delighted the painter, for of all things he had painted in his career he had never done a self-portrait.
The painter rushed home to his studio and began setting up his easel and canvas. He decided that he would be bolder than usual for this piece. In his usual work he was always careful not to dip his brush too deeply into the colors of the world, lest he take too much and leave nothing behind. But this time, he would show no such restraint. He was intent on getting every last minute detail of himself on the canvas.
And so the painter began to work. He first dipped his brush deep into his body, into his muscles and his anatomy. With this he roughly sketched out the composition of his portrait, deciding where to place every feature of himself.
Then he dipped the brush into his senses, into all the sensations that his body felt, the sights it had seen, the sounds it had heard and all the scents and flavors. With this he painted the first layer of color, giving a hazy substance to the painting.
He then went on by dipping his brush into his thoughts, his intellect and his reason, his words. The hairs of his brush stood out sharply as he pulled them from his mind, deftly painting the outlines and contours until they jumped out of the canvas as from a relief.
Next, he dipped the brush deeply into his emotions, all the pain and joy, the highs and the lows, the light and the darkness. Now he began to fill the contours with bold colors and sharp contrasts as the painting came to life before him, alive with the surge of feeling he had given it.
He felt that he was running out of himself, and so he began painting the final touches. From his past and his memories he took all the events of his life, all the things he had done and learned, all the experiences of a long life. These he painted as little details onto the living painting, filling its world with all manner of little wonders.
Finally, dipping into his last bit of personal subtlety, he shaded the painting and watched it grow deeper and richer. As the last drop of his being left the brush to grace the canvas, he saw that the painting was finally complete and that no detail was missing. He had put all of his being onto the canvas, and no detail of himself remained in him.
As he leaned back to look at the finished portrait, and seeing his life play out in the painting, he smiled. In contemplating the painting, he finally knew who he was. And as he let his gaze wander over the countless paintings in his studio, he lived many lives.
Who is the painter?