The Illusionist

Michael had dreams like everybody else. But his dreams were about one thing alone - art. His was an all-consuming passion. He had been to the Tate gallery in London, the Louvre in Paris, and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. (Or MOMA as it was affectionately known.)

His dreams became more and more real until one day the art gallery of his dreams appeared across the road from his house.

This should have caused some surprise since he lived in a small ex-mining town in Ayrshire and the museum had completely obliterated a small park containing a duck pond, a playpark and several rather straggly trees.

But nobody seemed to see the musuem as anything strange or unusual. It was there, and that was that.

The building had been constructed using the best elements of those he had visited. These included high, corbelled windows, arches, embrazons and fluted, greek pillars. The brickwork was faced with rose-coloured stone which seemed to glow in the sun.

The twin doors of polished oak were unlocked and open to the world should the world decide to come to this small town on the edge of nowhere.

He found the building divided into various galleries. He found that each gallery housed a different type of exhibit. For instance, the south wing contained sculptures of every variety by Henry Moore, Pablo Picasso, Pierre Rodin, Michaelangelo and others. Best of all, each one was completely new and original, having featured in his dreams of the last few years.

With unbounded joy he walked from place to place never needing a catalogue, for here were works by Degas, Rembrant, Van Gogh, Turner and countless others, yet like the sculptures these were totally unknown to the art world in general, yet each was by the person concerned.

Soon Michael found himself running the museum. No-one questioned his right to do this and he became a general factotum. He did this with love and care. He cleaned the paintings, polished the statues, swept the floor, and dealt with visitors.

Visitors indeed! They swept in from every country in the world. Groups came from schools, coachloads of tourists arrived, knots of sober-faced businessmen could be seen on company promotions, couples and single people of every age arrived to see this wonderous place.

Catalogues were published, films and radio programmes made about the exhibits and the building itself. "The Museum" was world famous.

No-one seemed to find the existence of this remarkable building strange or fearful. Instead it was a place of pilgramage for those who were hungry to bring beauty and joy into their lives.

Michael found himself losing weight. He did not dream any more. He slept only four hours a night. Then one day he fainted clean away. He had been there, without a rest for over a year. His dream was reality, but like all dreams it needed hard work to keep it going in the real world.

So he hired three assistants to take his place. One to administrate, a guide, and a cleaner, then he set off to London. Yes London. For he intended to see the sights he had missed for so long. He knew that his interest in Art was as strong as ever.

So it was. Yet a pang of sorrow went through his heart as he left behind his museum.

Two weeks passed and he had a lovely, relaxing holiday. He spent time with well-wishers whilst visiting the wonderful art galleries of Greater London. He saw many pieces of ancient and modern art. One photography exhibition so inspired him that he wanted to lift the prints off the wall and take them home to his museum. They were an inspiration for his dreams, if he could dream once more.

Michael came back home refreshed, ready to take up his real work again. Driving his car slowly into the town he found a difference. No longer was it hard to park because of the tourists, no longer were gift shops doing a roaring trade, no longer did visitors of every race and creed stream towards The Museum.

For it was gone.

Michael sat and wept. The park had reappeared and children were playing on the swings. A few ducks floated about on the small pond.

He knew what had happened. The dream had ended. He had given it his best for many years - even before it had appeared in solid form. Without him there to see to the reality of his surroundings there was no building, no art, nothing.

His little home was still in place. Michael parked his car and went inside. Everything was in order. Tired from his long trip, he decided to go to bed.

One dream had ended. Another was about to begin.