Seasons Of Serenity

Bryn has got all the celebrity status he ever wanted. Pretty much, everything he touched turns into gold. This, within the art circles. Still, he was always surrounded by glamour and praise, but inside him there was an empty, desolate wasteland of an artist. He had sold out for the fame and the glory, letting gigs replace principles and objections replace magic. Yet now the city towers and the gallery crowds choked Bryn in a smoky haze of disillusionment.

Bryn, who lost his enthusiasm in his art, needed something which would potentially rekindle the fire. Based on this, he went to a countryside which he felt did not have much interruption with the art business. It was here, in a place which breathed with the fresh lavor of a new start, where the youth saw an old and worn building of a studio located between great trees and hills. Some sort of magnet pulled Bryn to open the door slowly, making a loud groaning sound and entering a timeless world.

The studio was a beautiful place; full of unrealized hopes and unsaid tales. Dispersed dust crisscrossing the cracks on the windows allowed the rays of sunshine into what appeared to be just a cart to hold paintings that depicted paradise like none world had seen. Every brush stroke had turned into a note of a tune that woke up the sleeping spirit in Bryn. The colors cried a test of spring’s awakening and love’s gentle caress, which he had rejected for a life of chasing after fame.

Awestruck by the identity of the man who had painted and breathed into these canvases, Bryn threw himself into the history of the studio’s former tenant. He found typewritten letters and journals of a man who was obsessed not with glory but with desire to seek for the beauty and the truth. Every new revelation made sounded like a leitmotiv that rang a bell in the darkest part of Bryn’s soul.

This time, days turned into nights as Bryn allowed the creation process to take full possession of him again. With a single stroke of the brush he left behind the artifice he had been using to entrap his talent. He painted not to listen to gossip, or to the lure of the demise, but to simply listen to a voice that had, for an unadmittedly long time, been silenced in him, the voice that knows that to attain art, one must be simple. Winter of the soul felt officially over.

With seasons changing and flowering spring, inside the studio, Bryn was also experiencing a process of renewal. He gradually came to learn that art was not simply in precision, or talent, or technique; it was the confluence of veracity and desire, it was the affirmation of struggle and purpose, it was the encapsulation of the soul’s eagerness to love and to be understood.

Possessing new knowledge and strong resolve to change, Bryn came out of the rural isolation equipped with a set of paintings that were mentally equipped to tell the story of the protagonist’s rebirth. All of the canvases told of him emerging anew; the bliss of the metamorphosis in a testimony to the artfulness of the process when it is guided by the ethos of candor and pure intent. The summer solstice had begun.

The murmurs in the former galleries of the city, in which Bryn had once been an empty icon, were now about a man who had emerged as an reinvented artist finally discovering his soul in solitude. He had been reborn, and once again, his company was perceived as a crown jewel. Auditors admired the profound brochure and digest density of the paintings, as people felt the ultimate unmingled aroma of life behind each outline.

This time, instead of paying attention to the praises and scorn that formally ruled his choice of paint swatches, Bryn did not worry himself. For in the silence of the countryside, in the harmony of the nature, he came to comprehend the essence of art grandiosity – to influence the hearts, to awaken passion, and to paint the world with colors that can be felt by the atmosphere even; to give birth to art that knows no age.

On that account, the clean mind of Bryn also hosted to the art therapy as a way of showing that painting is powerful in that it holds some abilities that makes one to achieve a goal, provides hope, and sheds a light to find the direction to the new improved self. By and large, people would know him by the notes that speak of the fall and the rise, a symphony of hope and rebirth in the colours of the sun, wether it’s on winter, or spring.

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