He told him his business was to paint men's souls and forget there was such a thing as flesh:
"Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!"
And so they made him rub all out. The painter asks if this was sense:
"A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse!"
He maintained that if we get beauty we get the best thing God invents. But he rubs out his picture and paints what they like, clenching his teeth with rage the while; but sometimes, when a warm evening finds him painting saints, the revolt is complete, and he plays the fooleries they have caught him at. He knows he is a beast, but he can appreciate the beauty, the wonder and the power in the shapes of things which God has made to make us thankful for them. They are not to be passed over and despised, but dwelt upon and wondered at, and painted too, for we must count it crime to let a truth slip. We are so made that we love things first when we see them painted, though we have passed them over unnoticed a hundred times before--
"And so they are better, painted--better to us. Art was given for that."
"The world is no blot for us, nor blank; it means intensely, and means good." "Ah, but," says the Prior, "your work does not make people pray!" "But a skull and cross-bones are sufficient for that; you don't need art at all."... And then the poor monk begs the guard not to report him: he will make amends for the offence done to the Church; give him six months' time, he will paint such a picture for a convent! It will please the nuns. "So six months hence. Good-bye! No lights: I know my way back!"