There was once an Emperor who commanded all the artists in his kingdom to paint or draw a single animal each. In this way, he would compile a visual record of all the beasts in the land. The Emperor paid the artists for their services and gave them one year to do the work, asking for periodic progress updates. The ruler's functionaries assigned the first artist to portray the horse, the second to draw the badger, and so on. Our story concerns the artist charged with depicting the chicken. We'll call him the chicken guy.
After most of the year had passed, the Emperor had heard from everyone and was feeling pretty good about the project. He had several final renderings for the Royal Library. He had not, however, heard a peep from the chicken guy. Feeling a bit uneasy, he dispatched his envoy (and a few soldiers) to check out what was going on.
When the envoy arrived at the chicken guy's studio, he found a mess. Food scraps on the floor, loose chickens running about, no furniture — and no artwork. In the corner, next to a few chickens, sat the chicken guy. Now, the envoy, fearing the worst, simply grabbed the artist without a word and took him to face the Emperor.
Back at the palace, the Emperor said, "Artist, I placed my faith in you. I paid you well, gave you a generous deadline, and provided you with everything you needed. In return I asked for only one thing: a drawing of a chicken. Now, a year later, I see nothing. I'm not fond of opening a can of Emperor whoop-ass, but can someone hand me the really big head-chopping axe?"
"Emperor, please," begged the chicken guy, "I have not defrauded you, but instead have tried to go above and beyond my charge. You see, in order to fully know the chicken, to embrace a sort of chickenness, if you will, I had to be one with the chickens. For a year, I've lived among chickens, eaten alongside chickens, and slept among chickens. Only now that I truly know the chicken am I able to deliver to you the perfect drawing of a chicken."
And with that, the artist pulled a single piece of charcoal from his tattered coat and drew — almost instantly — the most amazing rendering of a chicken the Emperor could hope for.
And the Emperor put away the axe.
The moral of the story: It will take practice, of course, to achieve proficiency. It will take truly getting to know your subject matter before achieving mastery.
When the envoy arrived at the chicken guy's studio, he found a mess. Food scraps on the floor, loose chickens running about, no furniture — and no artwork. In the corner, next to a few chickens, sat the chicken guy. Now, the envoy, fearing the worst, simply grabbed the artist without a word and took him to face the Emperor.
Back at the palace, the Emperor said, "Artist, I placed my faith in you. I paid you well, gave you a generous deadline, and provided you with everything you needed. In return I asked for only one thing: a drawing of a chicken. Now, a year later, I see nothing. I'm not fond of opening a can of Emperor whoop-ass, but can someone hand me the really big head-chopping axe?"
"Emperor, please," begged the chicken guy, "I have not defrauded you, but instead have tried to go above and beyond my charge. You see, in order to fully know the chicken, to embrace a sort of chickenness, if you will, I had to be one with the chickens. For a year, I've lived among chickens, eaten alongside chickens, and slept among chickens. Only now that I truly know the chicken am I able to deliver to you the perfect drawing of a chicken."
And with that, the artist pulled a single piece of charcoal from his tattered coat and drew — almost instantly — the most amazing rendering of a chicken the Emperor could hope for.
And the Emperor put away the axe.
The moral of the story: It will take practice, of course, to achieve proficiency. It will take truly getting to know your subject matter before achieving mastery.
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