On a torrid summer day nothing moved and no one was in mood of doing anything.
Not even the wind.
Yet, there he was: the artist.
Having his soles burned by an asphalt that was going to melt into liquid pitch.
I got the sensation that this didn’t remotely compared to his burning desire of creation.
It was like he got up in the morning, gathered all his chunky colorful chalks, dressed in his working rags , going to share his dreams to the world.
He was pouring his soul through his drawing. And I was breathless.
The chalk was like nothing else in his hands, and people emerged one by one from the shadows around him to praise his talent.
For the artist it is never too cold or hot, damp or dry…
The artist teaches us that patience is indeed bitter, but that its fruit are almost always sweet.
We were fascinated by his creation, all having forgotten about the heat or any other minor inconvenient.
This was really a moment of pure art.