Years ago, this story had a huge impact on me. It changed a lot of things inside.
It’s not short - you’ll need about 10 minutes to read it.
But every minute is worth it.
I felt like sharing it with you all.
My Calling is THE CREATOR
He became an artist simply because he needed to do something after high school. He knew work should be enjoyable, and he enjoyed drawing, so he made his choice: he enrolled in art school.
By then, he already knew that a painting of objects is called a still life, of nature a landscape, of a person a portrait - and much more about his chosen craft. Now he had even more to learn. “To improvise, you must first learn to play from the score,” announced the imposing instructor, a renowned artist, at the introductory lecture. “So buckle up; we’ll start from the very beginning.”
He began to learn to “play by the rules.” A cube, a sphere, a vase… Light, shadow, halftone… Hand positioning, perspective, composition… He learned so much - how to stretch a canvas and prepare his own primer, how to artificially age it, and how to achieve the most subtle color transitions… His teachers praised him, and once he even heard his mentor say, “You are a gifted artist!” “But aren’t the others gifted?” he thought, though, to be honest, it was pleasant to hear.
But his carefree student years were behind him. Now he had an art degree in his pocket, he knew a lot and was capable of even more. He had gained knowledge and experience, and it was time to start giving back. But… something went wrong.
No, it wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying himself. And he hadn’t fallen out of love with his profession. Perhaps he had simply matured and begun to see things he’d previously overlooked. He discovered this: life was pulsating all around him, a life in which art had long since become a commodity. Success wasn’t necessarily achieved by those who had something to say to the world, but rather by those who knew how to effectively present and sell their work, by being in the right place at the right time with the right people. Unfortunately, he had never learned this. He saw his comrades rushing about, searching for themselves and their place in the sun. Some, in this turmoil, broke down, drowning their lack of demand and dissatisfaction in alcohol, losing their bearings, deteriorating… He knew that artists were often ahead of their time, and their paintings only received recognition and a high price after their death, but this knowledge offered little comfort.
He found a job that paid well, spent his days designing brochures, business cards, and pamphlets, and even found some satisfaction in it. But he drew less and less. Inspiration visited him less and less frequently. Work, home, television, routine… He was increasingly haunted by the thought: “Is this really my calling? Did I ever dream of living my life like this, in a dotted line, like a pencil sketch? When will I start painting my own picture of life? And even if I do, will I be able to? What about the ‘god-given talent’?” He realized he was losing his skill, that he was turning into a zombie, performing a set of specific actions day after day, and this stressed him out.
To keep from going crazy with these thoughts, he began heading out on weekends with his easel to Masters’ Alley, where rows of creative artisans lined the streets. Knitted shawls and birch bark crafts, beaded jewelry and patchwork quilts, clay toys and wicker baskets - you could find anything! Fellow artists also stood there with their timeless canvases, in great numbers. And there was competition…
But he didn’t care about the competition; he simply wanted to create… He painted portraits to order. Paper, pencil, ten minutes - and the portrait was ready. Nothing too complicated for a professional - all it took was an eye for detail, proper proportions, and a little flattery, just a touch of embellishment. He did it skillfully, and people loved his portraits. They were both relatable and beautiful, better than life itself. People thanked him often and heartily.
Life had become somewhat more enjoyable now, but he clearly understood that calling this “painting” a vocation would be… an overstatement. Still, it was better than nothing.
Once, he painted a portrait of an elderly woman with a long nose, and he had to work hard to make her look pretty. The nose, of course, was unavoidable, but there was something appealing in her face (a kind of purity, perhaps?), so he emphasized that. It turned out well.
“It’s ready,” he said, handing the portrait to the woman. She studied it for a long moment, then looked up at him so intently that he blinked.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, confused by her gaze.
“You have a calling,” the woman said. “You have the ability to see deeply…”
“Yeah, an X-ray eye,” he joked.
“Not exactly,” she shook her head. “You paint as if it were a soul… Now, looking at this, I understand: in reality, I am just as you painted me. Everything on the outside is superficial. It’s as if you’ve peeled off the top layer of paint, revealing a masterpiece underneath. And that masterpiece is me. Now I know for sure! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered sheepishly, accepting the bill - his usual fee for a quick portrait.
The woman was, needless to say, unusual. “You’re painting a soul!” Although, who knew what he was painting there? Maybe even a soul… After all, everyone has some kind of outer layer, that invisible husk that accumulates over a lifetime. And yet, nature intended everyone to be a masterpiece; he, as an artist, was absolutely certain of that!
Now his drawing was imbued with a new meaning. No, he didn’t introduce anything new to the technique - the same paper and pencil, the same ten minutes. It’s just that his thoughts kept returning to the need to aim and “remove the top layer of paint” to reveal the unknown “masterpiece” underneath. It seemed to be working. He really enjoyed watching his subjects’ initial reactions - their faces were very interesting.
Sometimes he encountered “models” whose inner selves were significantly more frightening than their “outer layers.” Then he would seek out some bright spots within them and enhance them. You can always find bright spots if you tune your vision to them. At least, he had never yet encountered a person who had absolutely nothing good inside.
“Hey, man!” a stocky man in a black jacket addressed him one day. “You… remember… you drew my mother-in-law last weekend?”
He remembered the mother-in-law, who looked like an old toad, and her daughter, who would become a rat when she grew old, and this man was definitely tough on them. He had strained his imagination to turn the toad into something acceptable, to see at least something good in her.
“Yeah?” he asked cautiously, not understanding where the burly man was going with this.
“So here’s the thing… She’s changed. For the better. She looks at the portrait and becomes a real person. But between you and me, for as long as I’ve known her, she’s been a toad…”
The artist involuntarily snorted: he hadn’t been mistaken, which meant he had seen it correctly…
“Well, I wanted to ask you: can you paint it in oils? Just to be sure! To solidify the effect, so to speak… I’ll pay any price, don’t even think twice!”
“Why not fix it? You can fix things with oil, marinade, or mayonnaise sauce. But you don’t draw with oil, you paint with it.”
“Exactly! Paint it in the best possible way, and I’ll pay you top dollar!”
The artist was amused. It was like “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” only with a plus sign! And since they were offering, why not give it a try?
He tried and painted it. His mother-in-law was pleased, the burly man was pleased, and his wife, the toad’s daughter, demanded to be immortalized as well. Probably out of envy. The artist did his best here too, feeling inspired - he enhanced the feminine allure, added some softness, highlighted the kindness of her soul… The result wasn’t a woman - she was a queen!
Apparently, the burly man was generous and shared his impressions with his circle. Commissions poured in one after another. Word spread that the artist’s portraits had a beneficial effect on people’s lives: peace reigned in families, unattractive women became more beautiful, single mothers got married instantly, and men’s potency increased.
Now he had no time to go to Masters’ Alley on weekends, and he left his office job without a trace of regret. He worked in clients’ homes; they were all wealthy, paid generously, and passed his name along. He had enough for paints, canvases, and even black caviar on weekdays. He sold his apartment, bought a larger one with a studio, and renovated it beautifully. It seemed like there was nothing more he could want. But thoughts began to haunt him again: was this really his calling - to paint all sorts of “toads” and “rats,” trying with all his might to find at least something bright in them? No, it was a good thing, of course, and useful for the world, but still, still… He felt restless, as if his soul was calling him somewhere, asking for something, but what? He couldn’t quite hear it.
One day, he felt an irresistible urge to get drunk. Just like that - to go off the rails, to pass out and forget everything. The thought terrified him: he knew all too well how quickly creative people could hit rock bottom on that treacherous path, and he didn’t want to follow it. Something had to be done, so he did the first thing that came to mind: he canceled all his sessions, grabbed an easel and a folding chair, and headed there, to Masters’ Alley. He immediately began working feverishly - sketching the street, the people, the park across the way. It seemed to calm him, to let the tension go…
“Excuse me, do you do portraits? Like, right away?” someone asked him. He looked up - a woman stood next to him, young, but her eyes were strained, as if she’d been crying. She must have suffered a loss, or some other tragedy…
“I do. Ten minutes and it’s ready. Would you like a portrait?”
“No. For my daughter.”
Then he saw the girl - and choked back a cough. The child, about six years old, looked like an alien: despite the fine, warm day, she was wrapped in a gray jumpsuit, so you couldn’t even tell if she was a boy or a girl. On her head was a thick hat, on her face a transparent mask, and her eyes… They were the eyes of an old person who had experienced much pain and was preparing to die. Death was in them, in those eyes - that’s what he clearly saw.
He didn’t ask any more questions. He’d seen children like this on TV and knew the child most likely had cancer, was undergoing radiation, had a completely weakened immune system - hence the mask - and that the chances of survival were minimal. He didn’t know why or how he was so certain, but he was. An artist’s trained eye, noticing every detail… He glanced at the mother - yes, that’s right, she knew. She was already mentally preparing. She probably wanted a portrait as a final keepsake. At least she wanted a memory…
“Sit down, princess, I’m going to draw you now,” he said to the alien-like girl. “Just be careful not to fidget or jump, or it won’t work out.”
The girl was hardly capable of fidgeting or jumping; she moved cautiously, as if afraid her fragile body would crumble into pieces from a careless movement. She sat down, folded her hands in her lap, stared at him with the wise eyes of Tortilla the turtle, and froze patiently. She must have spent her whole childhood in hospitals, and patience is quickly learned there; you can’t survive without it.
He strained, trying to discern her soul, but something was blocking him - whether it was the shapeless jumpsuit, the tears welling in his own eyes, or the knowledge that the old methods wouldn’t work here, that some fundamentally new, unconventional approach was needed. And he found it! Suddenly he thought, “What could she have been like if not for her illness? Not the silly jumpsuit, but a dress; not the hat on her bald head, but bows?” His imagination began to work, his hand began to sketch something on the paper of its own accord, and the process took over.
This time, he worked differently than usual. His brain definitely wasn’t in control; it had switched off, and something else had taken over. His soul, probably. He painted with his soul, as if this portrait might be his last, not the girl’s, but his own. As if he were about to die of an incurable disease, and there was very little time left, perhaps just ten minutes.
“It’s ready,” he said, tearing the sheet from the easel. “Look how beautiful you are!”
The girl and her mother looked at the portrait. But it wasn’t quite a portrait and not quite “from life.” It showed a curly-haired girl in a summer sundress running with a ball across a summer meadow. Grass and flowers underfoot, sun and butterflies overhead, a broad smile, and boundless energy. And although the portrait was drawn in pencil, it somehow seemed to be in color: the grass was green, the sky was blue, the ball was orange, and the sundress was red with white polka dots.
“Am I really like that?” came a muffled voice from under the mask.
“You are,” the artist assured her. “Well, maybe not right now, but soon you will be. This is a portrait from next summer. A perfect likeness, or rather, a photograph.”
Her mother bit her lip and looked somewhere past the portrait. She was clearly holding on with all her might.
“Thank you. Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding just as muffled, as if she, too, wore an invisible mask. “How much do I owe you?”
“A gift,” the artist waved his hand dismissively. “What’s your name, princess?”
“Anya…”
He signed the portrait and titled it: “Anya.” He also added the date - today’s date, and the following year.
“Here you go! I’ll be expecting you next summer. Be sure to come!”
Mom put the portrait in her purse, quickly took the child’s hand, and walked away. It was understandable - she must have been in pain, knowing there would be no next summer. But he knew nothing of the sort, didn’t want to know! And he immediately began sketching a new picture - summer, Masters’ Alley, himself sitting there, and two figures approaching along the path - a happy, laughing woman and a curly-haired girl with a ball in her hands. He felt inspired to create a new reality, and he liked how it was turning out. It looked so real! And he had to paint it for the next year, the coming one! So the miracle would know when to come true!
“Are you creating the future?” someone asked with interest, having quietly approached from behind.
He turned around - there stood a dazzling beauty, so beautiful it was hard to describe. An angel, perhaps? Her nose, however, was perhaps a bit too long…
“Did you recognize me?” the angel smiled. “You once created my future. And now, this girl’s future. You are a true Creator! Thank you…”
“What kind of creator am I?” he blurted out. “Just an amateur artist, a failed genius… They said I had a god-given talent, but I… I paint slowly, bit by bit, still trying to figure out what my calling is.”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” the angelic woman raised her eyebrows. “You can change reality. Or is that not a calling?”
“Me? Change reality? Is that even possible?”
“Why not? It doesn’t take much! Love for people. Talent. The power of belief. Essentially, everything. And you have it. Look at me - it all started with you! Who was I? And who am I now?”
She placed her hand on his shoulder encouragingly, as if fanning him with a wing, smiled, and walked away.
“And who are you now?” he belatedly called after her.
“An angel!” she turned around as she walked. “Thank you, Creator!”
…You can still see him in Masters’ Alley. An old easel, a folding chair, a suitcase full of art supplies, a large umbrella… There’s always a line waiting for him, and legends about him are passed down by word of mouth. They say he sees what is hidden deep within people and can paint the future. And not just paint it - he can change it for the better. They also say he has saved many sick children, transporting them to another reality through his drawings. He has students, and some have adopted his magical gift and can also change the world. A curly-haired blonde girl of about fourteen stands out among them; she can alleviate the most intense pain through her paintings because she feels the pain of others as if it were her own.
And he teaches and draws, draws… No one knows his name; everyone simply calls him the Creator. Well, such is a person’s calling…
Enjoy
had teardrops while reading. For me the most moving part was, that we all are masterpieces 
let’s remember!