After several years of losing touch, a twist of fate brought us together again, and naturally, we shared a few confidences, particularly about the good times we spent together in the Legion.

A passionate painter, Paulo lamented, undeniably, that his work hadn't brought him the recognition he desired and felt he richly deserved. He had recently been reborn after the success of an exhibition, but the visitors' reactions unsettled him more than he should have. Somewhat withdrawn from the world, he had decided to be self-sufficient. Then one day, while looking at one of his canvases, he wondered: “Is it really worth doing this? Why on earth do I paint these pictures? Does painting help me with anything other than distracting myself and passing the time?”

These thoughts disrupted his work to such an extent that he stopped painting altogether, and there was our friend, wandering aimlessly, guided by chance, frequenting all sorts of bars. Feeling lost and unmotivated, he wondered why he had ever started painting. He fondly remembered that he had been driven by the desire to establish a kind of relationship, a beautiful communication, between himself and the world. By painting his figures and landscapes, Paulo sought to express his inner self and hoped that those interested in his work would recognize his innermost being, hidden within him, so that they would see him as a man imbued with a new vitality and generosity.

In fact, Paulo had not yet achieved what had always been only a dream, and yet, the last dream, always him, kept resurfacing, always as beautiful and powerful, giving him the impetus to continue painting. In those moments, his soul vibrated; he felt his breath like the wind over the sea. Between him and the world, there existed an understanding and an affinity, even a communion, and above all, a harmony.

He no longer wished for his paintings to be self-portraits, destined to win the love and interest of potential "clients." He wanted to feel that secret intimacy where he had to die in order to be reborn. This new desire made his existence bearable, freed from his demons. Paulo lived increasingly withdrawn, rarely speaking or smiling. He wasn't interested in the things people cherished and kept himself apart from scholarly discussions about art. He had become a somewhat eccentric character who could spend hours staring at the water of a stream, a flower, or, like a reader absorbed in a book, immerse himself in the contemplation of the things he discovered.

One early morning, like any other, he was walking along a small river when he saw a landslide on the bank that had exposed the rock. Then something awakened within him. He stopped, and deep in his soul, he heard the echo of an ancient melody, a melody from the past.

The detail of the rock became, for him, a spectacle that seemed beautiful, incredibly beautiful, moving, and overwhelming. Something spoke to him, maintaining a close connection with himself; a harmony united the forest and the river. Everything seemed to be there only to reflect this moment of wonder where the river and the vegetation, the trees and the air, could meet, unite, and take on a new dimension. From that moment on, he began to paint feverishly. Paulo devoted himself to the execution of his paintings, plunging into the abyss of contemplating the spectacle of the world. He returned to live among the living.

One day, he discovered in a newspaper that many people had seen his works, that his name was in bold, and that the columns were overflowing with praise. The newspaper wrote: “The expressive quality is equally admirable in a still life where a bouquet of wildflowers attracts all attention…” For Paulo, these words seemed strange; he didn't remember painting a still life, much less wildflowers. Furthermore, he found no mention of the clay bank or the rainy sky.

Disappointed, he went to the exhibition where his paintings were displayed. After paying the entrance fee, like everyone else, he remained lost in thought for a long moment. Someone had just affixed labels to the works, on which were written all sorts of explanations that Paulo didn't understand. However, he understood that in a painting depicting a garden wall, some people imagined a cloud; people interpreted and, without a doubt, saw only what they wanted to see.

Paulo left without a word, continued to paint, but never showed his work again. My friend has just passed away; perhaps he has joined the ranks of painters unknown to their alive but who knew so well how to paint!