Neither rain nor heat nor wind were as faithful as Surien. After each day’s toil, he laid down the rags of a labourer and took up the mantle of a musician. He played his flute well. He played every day, practising his art with the patience of a craftsman whittling away at imperfection. The notes he drew from it were like tendrils; smoke rising from his pipe of life. As he blew into the dark tube, his breath stirred the passions he had nurtured with the purity of new melodies. Those who lived within earshot inhaled his musical concoctions at day’s end, the mayor’s daughter among them. She was beautiful and bored, longing for the day when she could leave that dirty town for the life of films in some fast shiny city. She lay listless on her divan, listening to the piper’s wordless tales. The notes came as bright birds and warm furs, settling around her as the atmosphere grew lush with the music.Surien was lonely. He dreamed also. His fingers played the longings of his soul to be larger than it was. He imagined he was speaking to the giver of dreams, and that his sounds were simple prayers asking for more than he dared hope to gain. He was glad that no-one complained about his flute practice. One day, an important black car came to that dusty corner of town. The mayor’s daughter looked down from her window and squealed with delight, rushing to pack her suitcases for her trip to stardom. But the car had come to bear away the musician, taking him far off to an unknown but hopeful future. She watched him go, carrying nothing but his flute case and a canvas sack, and the collective dreams of his listeners. Appreciate this Henri Rousseau painting
The Dream ~ Inspired by Henri Rousseau
Neither rain nor heat nor wind were as faithful as Surien. After each day’s toil, he laid down the rags of a labourer and took up the mantle of a musician. He played his flute well. He played every day, practising his art with the patience of a craftsman whittling away at imperfection. The notes he drew from it were like tendrils; smoke rising from his pipe of life. As he blew into the dark tube, his breath stirred the passions he had nurtured with the purity of new melodies. Those who lived within earshot inhaled his musical concoctions at day’s end, the mayor’s daughter among them. She was beautiful and bored, longing for the day when she could leave that dirty town for the life of films in some fast shiny city. She lay listless on her divan, listening to the piper’s wordless tales. The notes came as bright birds and warm furs, settling around her as the atmosphere grew lush with the music.Surien was lonely. He dreamed also. His fingers played the longings of his soul to be larger than it was. He imagined he was speaking to the giver of dreams, and that his sounds were simple prayers asking for more than he dared hope to gain. He was glad that no-one complained about his flute practice. One day, an important black car came to that dusty corner of town. The mayor’s daughter looked down from her window and squealed with delight, rushing to pack her suitcases for her trip to stardom. But the car had come to bear away the musician, taking him far off to an unknown but hopeful future. She watched him go, carrying nothing but his flute case and a canvas sack, and the collective dreams of his listeners. Appreciate this Henri Rousseau painting