There once was a painter who couldn’t see. He wasn’t born blind. In fact, he enjoyed the gift of vision for the first 68 years of his life. Once he developed cataracts, however, the sense he relied most on to make his art began to darken—and so did his paintings.
The painter had lived a slow life in the countryside since his 40s. His favorite subjects were the plants in his garden. By the time his vision began to fade, he had been painting the same themes for a decade. On some days, despair caught hold of him. “Useless old fool!” he denounced himself as he slashed, painted over, and burned some of his works. Yet, on most days, he simply continued painting.
As the years went by, his sight ebbed and flowed. Near his 80s, he received a final request from his government: Paint your flowers on large canvases, so we may install them in large halls for the world to see. He painted some. He destroyed some. But in the end, he furnished over 40 large paintings of lilies swimming in the water.
By the time the painter closed his eyes for the last time, he was 86 years old. He had painted the same subject, water lilies, more than 250 times over the course of 30 years—and those marked just 10% of his body of work. He had also painted people, train stations, and hay stacks.
After his death, the government exhibited some of his works. People from all over the world marveled at the beautiful flowers on the walls. He had been a prolific artist, no doubt. But the water lilies—they stuck. Was it the 30 years of dedication? Or the struggle against his waning eyesight?
Whatever it was, even 100 years after his passing, anyone who witnesses his art can feel it: Via the indelible intention of his life, Claude Monet, the painter who couldn’t see, proved a fellow French artist right: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”