Oil on Board
12 x 24 in
Each Sunday afternoon was story time in the Village park. The storyteller was generally a quiet man, except when telling stories. Children would crowd in front of the small wood stage on the grass and adults would shift behind them, pretending not to be interested in such a childish pursuit. The storyteller would arrive at 6 pm sharp, place his antique wooden chair on the stage, and open his weathered blue book. Every time he would read from the same book. The children didn't care as long as the story was exciting.
The crowd hushed as he opened the book; his dulcet voice set the scene. The story would then flow out of the pages, literally. From these pages one could feel the ocean spray, hear birds calling, or watch trees grow straight up from the paper. No matter the story, the illusions that manifested from his book seemed real.
At sunset the storyteller would end by saying, "Until next week." The illusions faded or collapsed in various manners until the pages were once again quiet.
One night as he walked from the stage he dropped the book. He scrambled to retrieve it but the pages fell open, the breeze flipping them to and fro. The children were astounded to see that every page was completely blank, not a word or picture could be found. The storyteller smiled and said, "Maybe someday I'll tell you the story of how I became a storyteller."