A blind man made broad strokes across a canvas. He used watercolor, but he was equally skilled with acrylics and oils. Friends of his asked if they could observe, see his process. Everyone thought that watching a sightless man paint would be a spectacle of sorts. But the blind man declined. His art was created more through guesswork and instinct than method.
The only time he let anyone in on his artistic secrets was when the neighbor boy asked for lessons. The blind man had declined any previous apprentices, but something about the young lad's candor struck him differently.
So now, the boy watched as the blind man flew. Not in the literal sense, but the blind man believed that the rush of doing something so absurd must feel just like flying. He soared across his canvas, did loop-the-loops with his brush, landing and taking off from his palette to refuel and adjust course.
When he finished, the blind man had no clue what he made.
"How do you know it's finished?" the boy asked from the far side of the room.
"Because, I started with a palette where the colors were all separated. They had their own little space, carved out just for that part of the rainbow."
"But you took them out of that space."
"Yes, I did. And I introduced them to each other. Red met yellow. Orange said hello to blue. Violet and green had a nice picnic together," the blind man motioned for the boy to join him, "Come closer and see."
A pair of shoes clicked along the ground, until the blind man could hear the soft sound of breathing.
"The painting is in harmony. No color is lonely or overshadowed. And once I bring every shade and hue together on the canvas, I know I'm done."
"But how do you know if it's any good?" the boy asked.
"I don't know if it's good. All I know is that it makes me happy."
The boy nodded, but the blind man didn't know that.