Have you ever watched a woman painting? I haven’t. I’m not built for that kind of appreciation. I get mesmerized by a minute of graceful dancing, when I lose myself in oblivion. But admiring paintings is way ahead of my gnat-sized attention span. Let’s reframe this then, shall we?
Have you seen an empty canvas? Have you seen a beautiful painting that made you …
The interim, between empty and beautiful- needn’t be interesting. Unless, you could see the painter herself in person. A creative soul making a novel work of art- she would be smiling without knowing it, forgetting for a minute or two to brush away that annoying strand of hair from her face, giving no care for a speck of dirt in her eyes. But sadly this image can take one person at most, and hence this can’t be seen outside this sheet of paper. Still, close your eyes and see her.
I digress. Beauty is truth. But truth is an eventful distraction.
The interim is what I’m trying to recall. I have a beautiful painting, and I had seen the empty canvas. Mind you- the empty canvas was beautiful too- to look at, to touch and smile at. I was happy with my empty canvas. But once while I was looking at my empty canvas, a painter walked in. She was beautiful, as all painters are. Clad in pearl white, she sung me to sleep. I slept. And slept. And I slept some more.
I am looking up now, and the canvas is beautiful. I don’t want my empty canvas now. I realize that canvases were never meant to be empty. But I can’t remember how long I had slept. I am a bit worried, for I can’t see the painter around. The canvas in itself is interesting. There’s a slice of the sweetest orange, next to a sparkling glass of champagne and a pearl white painter’s brush.
Now I wanted to see the painter. I needed a favor. I didn’t know where to look. So I slept, I wasn’t tired, but it seemed right to just sleep.
I slept some more. I woke up.
There was a green fountain pen in the canvas now. I hid the other three, the pen looks ugly. I took a peek at the brush. Too white. The glass looks too sparkly and the orange too sweet. I take a step back. Now the four of them together; look, well-very odd. But they fit. It’s kind of beautiful. I love the canvas.
But now the painter walks in. She needs to borrow the canvas. I oblige.
She says she needs the slice and the glass for a while.
She says she’ll give them back.
She is trustworthy, but the pen and the brush look very sad.
I am too.
I will miss the slice of orange and the glass of champagne, a lot.
They are the best I have.
With love to you two, Sr Ja.