One winter's day, however, when the weather was cold and no-one had come to his studio to request a picture for many days, the artist decided to paint a self-portrait. He set up a mirror and his easel and mixed his paints, and began tracing the outline of his own features. He worked on the picture for several days. As he worked he was pleased - his brush-strokes were unusually keen, the likeness was, he had to admit, exceptionally good. But when the painting was dry and he looked upon it again, it told him a terrible secret: it told him that in his heart of hearts, he didn't enter into the pact of secrecy with his subjects in order to protect them - he did it because he liked the feeling of having wriggled like woodworm into the lives of so many people. He liked the fact that all over the land, people couldn't help peeking at pictures of themselves, and either saying a small prayer of thanks to him, or muttering dark words of hatred.

The artist was greatly distressed by this revelation, and smashed his easel, stamped on his paints so that they burst all over his feet, and resolved never to paint a picture again. After several days however, he realised that as long as he was alive, he couldn't keep himself from painting. So instead of portraits, he resolved to change his subject. From this day forward, he told himself, he would paint only still lives; Vases of flowers, tiny ornaments, arrangements of bottles. Never again would he paint a human face. Never again would he unwittingly reveal a secret.

The artist painted his bottles, flowers, ornaments etc for just a few months before, quite unexpectedly one blustery evening, he was killed at his easel as he worked on a painting. A rich merchant, suspecting his wife of infidelity, had found a miniature that the artist had painted of her. On looking at the portrait, he saw instantly that his wife had not in fact been unfaithful to him, but that her heart harboured a secret much worse: in truth, she had never loved the merchant, she found him ignorant, and had married him out of a mixture of pity and greed. Unable to take out his rage on his wife, whom he loved, he sought out the artist, and stabbed him through the heart. He then took the paintings that were hanging around the studio, the paintings of bottles and flowers and ornaments, and flung them into the river.

It is said that the paintings floated away, and have turned up over time at all four corners of the globe. It is also said that you can tell them instantly: they are strange and unsettling to look at. Because although the artist never again revealed the secrets of another human subject after the day he painted his self-portrait, his terrible gift was still at work: the bottles, ornaments, fruit, etc - all these inanimate objects are also full of secrets. But they are speaking in a language we cannot understand. The effect of seeing one of these paintings, saturated as it is with the whisperings of objects, is said to be upsetting in ways that hang just out of reach, like a sneeze that never quite comes. The world of objects, it seems, is a frightening and unpleasant place. We should be thankful we do not have to learn what is really going on. We are saved only from this knowledge by the muteness of Things.

One winter's day, however, when the weather was cold and no-one had come to his studio to request a picture for many days, the artist decided to paint a self-portrait. He set up a mirror and his easel and mixed his paints, and began tracing the outline of his own features. He worked on the picture for several days. As he worked he was pleased - his brush-strokes were unusually keen, the likeness was, he had to admit, exceptionally good. But when the painting was dry and he looked upon it again, it told him a terrible secret: it told him that in his heart of hearts, he didn't enter into the pact of secrecy with his subjects in order to protect them - he did it because he liked the feeling of having wriggled like woodworm into the lives of so many people. He liked the fact that all over the land, people couldn't help peeking at pictures of themselves, and either saying a small prayer of thanks to him, or muttering dark words of hatred.

The artist was greatly distressed by this revelation, and smashed his easel, stamped on his paints so that they burst all over his feet, and resolved never to paint a picture again. After several days however, he realised that as long as he was alive, he couldn't keep himself from painting. So instead of portraits, he resolved to change his subject. From this day forward, he told himself, he would paint only still lives; Vases of flowers, tiny ornaments, arrangements of bottles. Never again would he paint a human face. Never again would he unwittingly reveal a secret.

The artist painted his bottles, flowers, ornaments etc for just a few months before, quite unexpectedly one blustery evening, he was killed at his easel as he worked on a painting. A rich merchant, suspecting his wife of infidelity, had found a miniature that the artist had painted of her. On looking at the portrait, he saw instantly that his wife had not in fact been unfaithful to him, but that her heart harboured a secret much worse: in truth, she had never loved the merchant, she found him ignorant, and had married him out of a mixture of pity and greed. Unable to take out his rage on his wife, whom he loved, he sought out the artist, and stabbed him through the heart. He then took the paintings that were hanging around the studio, the paintings of bottles and flowers and ornaments, and flung them into the river.

It is said that the paintings floated away, and have turned up over time at all four corners of the globe. It is also said that you can tell them instantly: they are strange and unsettling to look at. Because although the artist never again revealed the secrets of another human subject after the day he painted his self-portrait, his terrible gift was still at work: the bottles, ornaments, fruit, etc - all these inanimate objects are also full of secrets. But they are speaking in a language we cannot understand. The effect of seeing one of these paintings, saturated as it is with the whisperings of objects, is said to be upsetting in ways that hang just out of reach, like a sneeze that never quite comes. The world of objects, it seems, is a frightening and unpleasant place. We should be thankful we do not have to learn what is really going on. We are saved only from this knowledge by the muteness of Things.