Once Upon a Time there was an Artist Named Garry Sanipass…

In the deep woods, far from the hum of cities, a man lived in two halves. His cabin was unfinished — raw beams, unpainted walls, a fire that barely kept the night cold away. But within this isolation, he found himself split.

One half was the Starving Artist.

This figure painted with egg yolk and pigment ground from stone, chasing visions no one else could see. His clothes were frayed, his hands stained with color. He believed that art was sacred only when it cost him everything: sleep, money, comfort. To sell was to cheapen. To suffer was to prove devotion.

The other half was the Businessman.

This figure wore a suit without dust, even in the forest. He dealt in numbers, moving money that was not his, producing nothing but contracts and speculation. He survived by illusion: convincing others that value could exist where none was tangible. He called this survival.

The Artist looked across the table at him and said,

“You produce nothing real. You take without making. You thrive on emptiness.”

The Businessman only smiled and answered,

“And you produce everything no one needs. You drown in meaning no one asked for. You call this truth.”

They despised one another, yet they could not look away. For each was a mirror.

The Artist lived on myth, on the story of suffering that made his work pure.

The Businessman lived on myth, on the story of profit that made his wealth real.

Both survived by telling stories.

And it was in that recognition — in the clash between hunger and profit, between pigment and paper — that a third figure appeared. Neither Artist nor Businessman, but something else.

The Trickster.

The Trickster laughed at both masks, knowing that art and business were two sides of the same illusion. He played with suffering and profit as if they were colors on a palette, reshaping both into something new.

And so, in the forest, the man came to realize: he was not the Artist. He was not the Businessman. He was the one telling their story.