-The papers write about you, he said, as they do with important people.
But Theophfilos did not pay any attention.
-Let them write, he answered.
[...] -Do you know what they write? asked in wonder.
-They write that you are a great painter.
[...] -"Great popular artist".
A smile covered the face of Theophilos. He said contended.
-That's good. Very good I say.
-What you just said. "Popular artist". I paint for the people and am happy
when grannies and children get satisfaction out of my works and try to explain
them with their mind. This is my art and my glory, I say. To make people happy with
my work. I wish for nothing more, nor do I paint for the intellectuals. These either
pretend that they like my art or abuse it, do not understand it, the same way a city-dweller
cannot grasp the yearning of the shepherd's pipe and the longing springing from a tiny baglama.
This he said and sat pensive on a parapet. The greengrocer started muttering something
but Theophilos did not seem to listen. His mind was elsewhere.
To these words that his lips were sucking like a candy: "Popular
artist". That was it. He knew it himself a long time now but did not know how to phrase it. The newspaper
had put it nicely. And this pleased him a lot because when they would ask him, he kwould know
the answer. "Popular artist". Nothing else.
By Nestoras Matsas, To paramythi tou Theophilou (The tale of Theophilos), (7th edition) Athens,
Estia editions, 1995, pp. 131-133.