The Young Artist
**This short story is an original work**
BASED ON A TRUE STORY
There was once a young boy given a gift by God.
A tremendous gift so sure and so pure that with it came a strong spirit meant for greatness. But only he knew that.
One early spring morning, he took in a deep breath of the clear and misty air and stared out into the forest by his house. A wind like a fire came over him, igniting his mind and imagination. He wanted to capture the beauty of the nature he witnessed. So he set to work. He sat at a desk and penciled an outline. He scribbled. Then drew. And his heart thumped with every line, thundered with every shade.
And when he finished, he smiled. Trees and rivers and birds. It was by no means perfect. But it was innocent and done well for a child of his age.
Then and there, he fell in love with the craft.
No more than a year later, his cousin gave him a set of brushes and a palette of paints for his birthday. His first set. One of the few grand smiles he’d ever have shined on his face and in his spirit that day. A day he would remember.
The first painting was even more enthralling than his first drawing. The blood rushed to his head, his soul filled with joy. Happy, he thanked God for such a gift. His strokes were not yet perfect. But he knew that. And he vowed to do better.
Each time he painted thereafter was the same. His heart sang with freedom. He moved the brush, and his spirit chirped.
On a day when the boy and his father went to church, the local priest asked, “So, what are you going to be when you grow up, young man?”
The boy squared his fists at his hips like a hero of romance and shouted: “I am going to be a great artist!”
“Will you, now?” The priest laughed, staring into the boy’s determined eyes. “Your child has a strong will. Better put it to good use.”
And that was when the boy’s father examined his son from the side of his glance.
A week later, the boy’s father took his son to the customs office where he worked. He showed him what he did and attempted to demonstrate the value of such a profession.
“Father,” said the boy. “I don’t want to do this.”
And the father clenched his heart and squinted. “You don’t see the value in my profession?”
“I never said that, father. I just want to become an artist.”
And his father frowned. “No, you will become an officer of the law! And that is final.”
“But I have a different dream! A different passion! I’m not meant to do what you do!”
“Then you will do anything else! No son of mine is going to become a loser! An artist is nothing and if you become one, you will die alone. Do you want to be homeless? Do you want to be a bum? Artists don’t make any money!”
“You’re wrong!” The boy teared up, clenched his fists, and raced out of the building. He denied his father’s words in his head. No, no, no – he is wrong! I will be a great artist! I will!
One night, when the boy should have been doing his chores, his father marched into his room. He found his son doing the unthinkable... painting. He smacked a bruise into the boy’s cheek, and yelled at him until the boy became nearly deaf. A stream of blood fell from his cheek. And he wept.
In school, whenever the boy got his hands on a piece of paper, he would scribble and doodle and practice his craft. But the teachers would take his art, tear it up, and yell at him.
“Oh, so you think you will be a great artist, huh? You will not! Focus on your studies! Don’t have your head in the clouds!” they’d say. But the boy persisted and kept practicing. So, the teachers would demean him. “Your drawings are ugly! You have no chance to be an artist! Listen to your father!”
The teachers would discipline him. And when his father heard about this, he would beat his son though his mother would try to protect him.
God will help me, the boy said to himself. God will guide me. He loves me! And indeed, the more the boy prayed, the better he became. The boy had trusted in God so much that he even considered becoming a priest. But he was convinced that God had other plans for him.
When the time came for the boy to go to high school, he begged and pleaded with his father to let him attend a classic high school, where he could learn more of the arts. But his father ignored his son’s request and sent him to a technical school of his own choosing.
Since words nor reasons nor cries had worked, the boy did poorly in his studies on purpose, in hopes that his father would let him devote himself to his dream.
But when the young boy returned home for the summer, no one greeted him at the door. He called for his mother, and his mother stepped out of a room, waving him to enter. When he did, he found his father lying sick in bed.
“Your father is dying,” said his mother. “Go and make amends with him.”
The young boy moved next to his father. His father spoke between coughs. “You have failed another class …? You are no son of mine … you’re a failure.”
And his father passed away. The dagger of those words pressed into the young boy’s heart. A deep wave of sadness overcame him.
Not long after, the young boy did worse in school than he had ever done before. So, his mother let him quit.
The young boy grew into a young man and moved to the city where he could prove to the doubters that they were wrong. He was determined to be a great artist. He studied the art of the greats, the classics. He learned fine lines and delicate strokes. He got better with time and endured tedious efforts and patient pain to perfect his art.
The young man grew enough courage to apply to a school where he could further develop his craft and become one of the greats. A rush of inspiration passed through him. He spent weeks perfecting every line, enduring much to make them straight and precise. On the day before he submitted his application, he knelt in the pews of a church. Before God.
He prayed, “I trust you, God. I know you won’t let me down. Help me, I beg you.”
Weeks came and went and a letter arrived at his door.
He picked up the letter with a twist in his gut and hope in his heart. He opened it, bracing himself. He scanned the words...
...rigid...no life...consider architecture, not art...
He blinked in shock and grieved in silence.
But the young man had a strong spirit.
He did his best to take the criticisms and try again. He entertained a less rigid style, worked to imbue his art with life, and tried many different methods to make his works good enough.
He prayed to God again, still trusting, and submitted his application a second time.
When the letter came, the words read...
...have found your drawings unsatisfactory…
After all the pain, all the effort… his heart split open. His face twitched. His jaw trembled. And tears swelled. He fell to the ground and wept.
Terrible, terrible! He muttered to himself. I am terrible! I am no artist!
He was not terrible. But he allowed himself to believe what others had told him. Within him, an anger festered. Father did this to me! He made me doubt myself!
And the thoughts continued, galloping in his mind, so fast and decisive, so certain. He prayed, “God, I prayed to You! I begged You! Time and time again, kneeling before Your altar! I trusted You to help me! And yet You let this happen! You are a trickster god that let me believe I had a gift! You laughed at me while I sank into the abyss! I do not want to believe that! But either You are a cruel God that does not love me, or You do not exist at all! And it would be easier for me to believe that You do not exist.”
He looked at the Cross, which he once so trusted, and he bent it in his mind. And so, the young man’s faith left him, and he began to believe only in himself.
He went to his friends for comfort, but they, too, were all broken by the world. Some penniless, some in debt, others struggling to find a job. Their words casted blame on others, and because of the festering wrath within his heart, he agreed with them. He wanted to help his friends and his people. To fight against the same system that forced them so low. But he was poor and had become homeless.
The young man, who had given up on his dreams, therein decided to join the military. Maybe this was the best path? Maybe it was a way to punish himself? Maybe a way to find purpose. Strength. Ultimately, he ran from the pain of childhood, of discouragement, of failure, and the worst of all – a broken dream and a broken heart.
The young man stared off into space with burning hatred in his heart.
“Sir,” said the recruitment officer. “Please. Sign your name.”
The young man looked at the papers. Took in a deep breath. And signed his name:
...Adolf Hitler...
Hitler’s Original Artwork…
