Alejandro sold his artwork on the street near the square. That is, he referred to it as artwork to the tourists who stopped at the shady spot where he spread his wares on a sheet laid on the smooth marble tiles. But it wasn’t really art, these painted squares of canvas-board. The work he sold had a distinct style not yet adopted by hundreds of other street artists in this city of tourists, and it sold well.
But it was his work, not his art. His art was something else entirely. Something he didn’t entirely understand. An art that raged within him, that demanded to be released. But when he tried to release it, to let it loose onto canvas or into clay, it somehow eluded him. Never quite happening the way he imagined in his mind.
And so his art remained in Alejandro’s mind only and the rage continued inside him and he didn’t know how to release it. It raged as he slept, as he ate, as he drank and drank still more. It raged in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening – in the evening most of all.
It raged as he continued to paint the trite artwork squares he sold to tourists.