Primavera

Alessandro Botticelli was an old man. He was still held in high esteem as a great artist, but lately the looks he received when walking the streets of his town had turned from admiration to something close to pitty.

His eyes, that used to search his surroundings for inspiration, had become dull and he never seemed to lift his gaze to the sky anymore as he used to years ago.
Rumors spread around the city like wildfire. Some said his health was deteriorating,others suspected him of unsavory lifestyles that finally took their toll on the man, there were even voices heard that suspected Botticelli of trying to evoke their compassion as he could not stand the fact that the world, and the art world, had moved on to leave him behind, nothing but a relic. But all of them were mistaken.

The truth was that Botticelli was too preoccupied to pay any reverence to anything outside him. This mind was far from failing him, it was simply busy pondering the past.

Botticelli stood in his studio and leaved through his scetches. He had hundreds of them. Faces of noblemen and peasents. Flowers, trees and animals. Sometimes he had to scetch one motiv over and over until he had a graps on it. Finally he found the work he was looking for. He emptied one of the walls of his workplace and hung the scetch there. It was the face of a young woman.