“True; but don’t you see, it is not new to me, it being there before me every night?”
“I should never be tired of looking over a view like this. I should give up my sleep to be looking at it the whole night.”
“Ha, ha, ha, you are an artist and different from an old priest like me.”
“But Osho-san, you are not the less an artist, as long as you see the beautiful and enjoy it.”
“That is so, though my artistic skill does not rise above drawing an apology of Bodhidharma. Speaking of Bodhidharma, you see a picture of the holy man in the niche there; it is from the brush of my predecessor, here. Pretty good, isn’t it?”
True enough, there was a hanging picture of Bodhidharma which had absolutely no claim to any artistic value, except that it was a very innocent production, which gave no evidence of trying to hide the artist’s want of skill.
“Why, it is artlessly good.”
“There need be no more about pictures that our kind make. We are well satisfied as long as they represent our spirit.”
“They are far better than pictures that bespeak skill but breathe base vulgarity.”
“Ha, ha, ha, you know how to praise things. By the by is there the degree of Doctor for painters, these days?”