A Painter: A Short Story

In the middle of a room, a painter sat on a wooden stool, holding a color palette on his left hand, and a paint brush on his right. In front of him stood a blank canvass, waiting to be filled with hues and images the painter has formed in his creative mind. Behind him, a tall window is wide open, allowing rich sunlight to pour into the tiny square room. A nondescript door lies on the painter’s right side, while his finished and unfinished works lay on his left side.
He closed his eyes, breathed the fresh air  coming in through the windows, and allowed his mind to wander into the most beautiful piece of memory he could find.

Eyes reopened, the painter smiled. He found a memory, so clear it was sparkling- with lashes so long and graceful, its depth close to serene perfection. He dabbed at the palette and waved the brush across the canvass. He made another wave backward, completing the outline of the picture. Stroke by stroke and line by line, he painted with a great amount of concentration. His brows were furrowed, and his breath was held to assure full control of his arm.

For hours he worked, with nothing concrete to copy but the image from his memory. With nothing to compare it to, it was his masterpiece. He adored his work- the colors, the shape and how real it seemed. So he kept adding more, more, and more. He didn’t know when to stop. He was so engulfed by its beauty. He wanted it so much, to burst into life and become a reality once more. But he forgot that it was just a painting, a mere duplicate of what he held dear.

At that time, the last of the sun’s rays died and left the painter and his painting in semi-darkness. He stood up, removed the canvass from its stand, and laid it in front of the piled paintings on his left. He stood up, stretched his limbs and headed to the door on his right.

Tomorrow, he will start again. He will try again. Until his most beautiful memory comes back to life.

___

by Adrienne Luzanne

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August 2013
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