# Summary

An envious artist resorts to violence to uncover the secret behind a famous painter's unique and captivating colour, only to find the truth at a high personal cost.

# Abstract

In "The Perfect Colour," an artist consumed by envy and disgust watches gallery visitors marvel at a revolutionary colour created by Lothar Grünheim, a previously unknown painter. Determined to uncover the secret of this hypnotic colour, the artist, risking everything, breaks into Grünheim's secluded studio under the cover of darkness. Despite his initial confidence, the artist is surprised by Grünheim's anticipation of his visit and his frail condition. After a violent confrontation, Grünheim whispers the secret of the colour to the artist, a revelation that leaves the artist in disbelief and ultimately leads to the painter's demise. The artist, now acclaimed and physically diminished, awaits the arrival of someone else who will seek the secret of the colour, understanding the cost of such knowledge all too well.

# Opinions

- The narrator harbours deep envy towards Lothar Grünheim for his creation of the perfect colour, which has captivated audiences.
- There is a sense of superiority and underestimation of Grünheim's security measures, as the narrator believes his plan to break in is foolproof.
- The narrator's obsession with the colour drives him to extreme measures, indicating a willingness to sacrifice ethics for personal gain.
- Grünheim's reaction to the intruder suggests a level of acceptance and anticipation of the inevitable attempt to steal his secret.
- The narrator's disbelief at the colour's secret indicates that the truth is ironic or unexpected, highlighting the theme that the pursuit of artistic perfection comes with a significant personal price.
- The final revelation that the narrator has now become what he once despised completes the cyclical nature of envy and the relentless pursuit of fame and recognition in the art world.

The Perfect Colour

Everything in Life Has Its Price

The Colour — Created by Author with Midjourney

I stood leaning against the door frame and watched the gallery visitors standing around “the” work of the century, even the millennium, with envy and disgust.

Captivated and unmoved, they marvelled at the unique work of the most famous painter of our time, the expressionist Lothar Grünheim, who was completely unknown until recently.

He was not known for his particular painting style or expressionism achievements. He became famous because of this damn colour.

Nobody knew this colour before, and nobody could imitate it or even explain what it might be made of. The ultimate colour — the most beautiful, the most mysterious, even the most hypnotic — seemed to draw the viewer in and let a blaze of colour light up and pass by.

Like a drug-addicted hippy in the throes of LSD by Hendrix’s music in delirium, these people stood before Gruenheim’s paintings. I hated him for it, and the envy left me no peace.

I had to know what the secret of the colour was. I had to have it and was prepared to do anything about it.

On the same day, I looked for the address of Gruenheim’s studio. I was told that he rarely left his workplace and lived a very secluded life, almost as a hermit, fulfilling all the clichés of an artist.

Rumours say he was physically weakened, and the few people who saw him reported that he looked old and frail.

So, I had nothing to fear and was sure I would elicit his secrets of colour in a pleasant or not-so-nice way.

I got myself everything I thought was crucial for such an endeavour: a cheap sifting device, cudgel, glass cutter, rope, and, of course, a knife — a vast and dangerous knife, the sight of which would undoubtedly have made a mute tongue speak.

Fortunately for me, his house was not in the town centre, but in the most remote corner of the suburb. It was smaller than I expected because Gruenheim had to earn millions with his cursed colour.

The high wall proved to be a challenge, but I managed to get into the garden with some skill.

Everything was very dark as there were no streetlights there. Only the night crickets chirped fearfully around me and fell silent whenever my cautious steps came near them.

I was amazed that the older man had not taken any measures to keep uninvited guests like me away from his house. There was no surveillance system, no dogs, or even floodlights with a motion sensor.

I worked my way to the front door relatively quickly. It wasn’t locked. For someone who enjoys seclusion so much, that was quite unusual. But I wasn’t going to complain about my luck. I would soon get what was coming to me. The secret will be mine.

The house was eerily quiet. When I carefully closed the front door behind me, every sound seemed to have died. I walked as quietly as possible to the stairs and tried my luck as I stepped on them with my foot.

Only a slight creaking could be heard; the rest was in dead silence. When I reached the top, I stood in a corridor with two doors opposite me. One door was half open, and I could see Gruenheim’s bed.

I carefully looked around the corridor again. It was only up here that I realised that all the walls in the house were completely bare. Even I, a painter who seemed to have been abandoned by the muse, had my flat full of my paintings.

I didn’t see a single picture in Gruenheim’s house. Did the older man also seem to have his skeletons in the closet?

For a brief moment, I hesitated and felt pity. But when I thought about the gallery visitors, my anger towards Gruenheim reappeared.

Determining to pull this thing off, I step straight into the bedroom with a truncheon. There he lay in bed, limp. He must have been around 80. I screwed up my face in anger and hatred towards the man and hit Gruenheim’s head with the truncheon.

He groaned softly but otherwise made no more noise or movement. I thought the blow was too hard or that I had caught the wrong spot on his head, and he was dead. But then I felt his pulse.

As I practised at home, I put the man in restraints and positioned him in bed so that he was leaning back against the wall. I didn’t bother stuffing his mouth as no one within a 5-kilometre radius could help him if he were stupid enough to scream.

After what seemed like an eternity, he began to stir and moan. The blow was probably a bit too hard, I thought to myself.

His eyes opened slowly. To my surprise, he didn’t startle at the sight of me. On the contrary, the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile.

“Ah,” he breathed softly. “Ah, I’ve been waiting for you.” “What are you babbling about? Have you gone mad, or have you always been like this?” I snapped at him.

He coughed violently and gasped for air. He seemed to find it difficult to speak, but he said, ‘I know why you’re here,’ coughed and paused. You want the secret of the colour. “You’re a very clever chap. The only question is whether you’re stupid enough not to tell me,” I said, pulling the knife out of its holster.

“Come closer to me,” he said in a weak voice. Watching the old man warily, I walked carefully to the bed. “Closer,” he said quietly again. “I have no more time and no more strength; bend over to me,” this time, he complained pleadingly. I was so close, I thought and leaned my ear towards him.

He quietly whispered the colour’s secret into my ear, and when he had finished, I jumped back from the man. “It can’t be,” I said quietly and shouted again, “It can’t be!”

Gruenheim made a noise that sounded like steam escaping from a boiler and fell over to the side of the bed. He stopped moving, and his gasping breath could no longer be heard.

Visitors to the gallery stood in droves in front of my painting. They couldn’t get enough of it and were prepared to come back repeatedly to look at it for hours.

I watched them, sitting in a wheelchair by the door frame. They were mesmerised by my painting and loved me. I finally got my recognition and fame.

But now I was tired and wanted to go home to bed. Tomorrow, or even today, he will come and want to know my secret, and I will tell him. I was old and frail now because everything in life has its price.