Everything Karl did in life, he did for real—or not at all. Karl never acted the lover; he always loved women who loved him. And he didn’t “work at” painting like other, even more gifted than he, artists. Painting was what Karl lived for. And in war he was also himself—only himself: a master of war. And whether war was small or large, it always was the same thing for him: a cruel confrontation where you could either win or die. After accepting his first fight on the walls of a besieged city years ago, he never stopped fighting. His soul longed for beauty, but what became Karl’s life was not painting—it was war. It changed its shape and names, but it always remained itself—war—and the same can be said about him. Over the long years, Karl had managed to be both a soldier and a commander. He changed enemies and overlords, moved from country to country, from language to language—but the essence remained unchanged: he was a man of war.