I'm not telling you the story of my life, it's just a story that I remember.
No one knew his name, but the locals called him ◼◼◼ because of the many drawings and prints that filled his house; because he was too poor to buy things in the markets or look for items that he did not know., and it was not the reality of things that ◼◼◼ cared about, but their multiplicity. Therefore he hoarded riders in dark armour on ghostly horses with flaming mouths with hooves pointing like beams of light into the heavens. And his friend told him: you take the shadow and leave the substance. But ◼◼◼ continued his work; he mentally examined every creature from every angle and then he covered his screen with dots and curves. He collected not only human gestures, but also those of all beasts and all their movements, to reduce them down to simple lines. Then, as an alchemist studying his mixtures of alloys and organs and watching them melt into gold in his oven, he imagined pouring them all out and combining them, combining and melting, and that's why ◼◼◼ lived locked up in his little house.
●●● was the son of a blacksmith, his mother died, so ◼◼◼ took ●●● home with him. All day ●●● squatted in front of the screen while ◼◼◼ collected his forms. At night, ●●● fell asleep after midnight in the shadow that spread wide under the glow. In the morning, ●●● woke up and found himself surrounded by the prints of his body, his lips, eyes, hair and hands, ◼◼◼ had collected all the positions of his body, but he did not take a portrait of him. And so the shapes of ●●● were thrown into the crucible with all the movements of animals and lines of plants and stones. And, forgetting ●●●, ◼◼◼ seemed to be forever pondering it.
However, there was nothing to eat in the house of ◼◼◼. ●●● did not dare to say anything to ▲▲▲ or the others. He was silent and he died. ◼◼◼ drew his frozen body, gripping his weakened fingers and his closed eyes with long eyelashes, but ◼◼◼ didn't know that ●●● died, just like he never knew he was alive. He only added these new forms to all the others that he collected. He grew old, and his paintings ceased to be understood, for many years he was busy with his ultimate work, which he hid from everyone and which was supposed to embody the results of all his striving. When he finally finished it, he sent for ▲▲▲ and reverently opened it before him. And ▲▲▲ said, "◼◼◼, close this again" ◼◼◼ asked ▲▲▲, but could not get him to say more, and therefore ◼◼◼ knew in his heart that he had performed a miracle. But ▲▲▲ saw nothing but a jumbled mass of lines. And a few years later, ◼◼◼ was found lying dead, his face covered with a wild ecstacy of wrinkles.