"An Unfinished Canvas"

An Unfinished Canvas - a Short Story, by Bruce Enns

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all we know on earth and all we need to know.”

- John Keats

*****

“I’m looking forward to seeing you again," I said into my phone. "I'll be back tonight at 6:30."

"Of course, Bruce. We're starting a little early today," Juan replied, his voice carrying the warm assurance I'd come to expect.

The converted warehouse that housed Juan's art studio still held whispers of its industrial past. Steel beams stretched overhead like ancient ribcages, and the afternoon light filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. I stood in the doorway, my hand trembling slightly—a reminder of the Parkinson's disease that had become my constant companion.

The tremors in my hand were worse tonight. Like many others with Parkinson's, my sleep

patterns had become erratic, filled with night wrestling—not with sheets or pillows, but with ideas that refused to rest. Some of these nocturnal battles proved fruitful; others left me exhausted and empty-handed. Tonight's class would be different. I could feel it in my bones.

By 6:15, the studio had begun to fill with the evening's artists. Bill and Bobby arrived together, their easy banter echoing off the walls. They'd been friends since college, both working corporate jobs by day and pursuing art by night. Susan, new to the group, entered quietly, her eyes taking in every detail of the space. Eldridge followed, adjusting his hearing aids with practiced fingers. Frank was the last to arrive, his white cane tapping a gentle rhythm against the floorboards.

Juan stood at the center of the space, his presence commanding without demanding. "Okay folks, there are only five of you today, but that's OK. So, why don't we all pick a seat around the little stage where our model will join us in a few minutes?"

The ritual of choosing seats began. Each position would offer a different perspective, a different truth. Bill and Bobby naturally gravitated toward adjacent spots, while Frank took longer to settle, his cane exploring the space before him. Eldridge chose a spot that gave him a clear view of everyone's faces, compensating for his imperfect hearing with keen visual attention. Susan selected the final spot at the near right end leaving Juan to take the lone spot remaining, to her left.

"Ready?" Juan asked, his voice soft but clear. "Ok, now before the model comes out, I would ask us all to close our eyes totally and take a few deep breaths in preparation for our drawing session. Just spend a little time thinking about what beauty you hope to uncover as you do your drawing tonight."

In the darkness behind closed eyes, I watched Maria enter silently. She moved with the grace of someone comfortable in their own skin, despite—or perhaps because of—her deafness. Her T-shirt and dark leotards were simple, practical, but there was an elegance in her positioning as she took her pose.

"Alright class," Juan announced, "our first drawing tonight will be exactly 45 minutes. I will let you know when there are 10 minutes left. If possible, work independently and in silence. Okay folks, open your eyes and begin drawing."

The silence lasted precisely three seconds before Bill's voice cut through it. "Hey Juan, what's going on? I thought we paid for a nude model tonight?"

"No comments, Bill. Just draw."

Susan's voice followed, tentative but earnest. "Juan, sorry, but, do we draw her face, her legs, her whole body?"

"Just draw anything you see."

The quiet that followed was different—focused, intent. Then Frank rose from his seat, moving with careful determination toward the stage. He stood directly in front of Maria, blocking Bill and Bobby's view. Slowly, he raised his hands toward her face, his fingers trembling slightly in the air.

Bill's patience snapped. "Frank, I don't know what your problem is buddy, but please move one way or the other so Bobby and I can see the girl. I can't draw her if I can't see her face."

Juan's voice remained steady. "Take your time, Frank. Do you need some help?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine," Frank replied, returning to his seat. "Sorry, guys."

The revelation of Frank's near-total blindness transformed the energy in the room. His drawing, when complete, showed Maria's features in an arrangement that defied conventional placement—her left eye floating above her nose, the other seemingly disconnected from her face entirely. Yet there was something profound in its truth, in the way it captured the essence of touch translating to vision.

As the forty-five minutes drew to a close, Maria stretched and began to walk around the stage. Susan, still new to the group's dynamics, approached her with a warm smile.

"Thanks for coming out tonight. It's great to have such a beautiful young lady modeling. We usually have much older people modeling for our class. Do you mind if I ask your name?"

Maria remained silent, her eyes meeting Juan's across the room. He whispered gently, "Maria?"

"Yes?" she responded, her voice barely audible.

"Susan would like to know your name. Would you like to tell her?"

"Mar-a," came the whispered response.

The moment sparked a cascade of interpretations that would have amused a linguist. Bill leaned toward Bobby, whispering, "I can't hear her. What did she say?"

"I think she said her name was Mary. Or maybe Maria, or something," Bobby replied, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Heh Eldridge, Did you hear anything?”

“I thought I picked out the name Mar-Tin…or something,” mumbled Eldridge.

“Martin? Are you gay or what, Ellie?” blurted Bill, a little louder than intended.

“Actually I am,” snapped Eldridge, “and if that’s a problem, you should consider leaving soon…damned soon.”

“Easy Bill”, whispered Bobby.

Juan, ignored the tension and turned to Frank. "What did you hear?"

"I think I heard her say Mariah."

"Susan?"

"I must confess that she reminds me of a very dear old friend and I detected her saying—almost sighing—Mary...ahhh."

Frank interrupted the chain of responses. "Could I please have ten more minutes to finish my drawing?"

"Oh sure," Juan nodded. "Just let me know when you're done."

"What?" Bill protested. "Forty-five minutes, eh, Juan. Do I get more time too?"

“C’mon now, Bill. When you lose your eyesight too, we'll probably give you a couple more minutes… If you're nice."

Bobby snickered to Bill, "Better shut your big mouth, buddy."

The revelation of Maria's deafness added another layer to the evening's lesson in perception.

“I’m not sure if any of you have noticed the older fella sitting behind you in the wheelchair. Bruce was actually one of my first struggling students when I started offering advice to folks like you guys almost 20 years ago. And like some of you, he had never drawn before. He has really improved his technical skills. A lot has happened in the last dozen years or so. First of all, Bruce lives with a condition called Parkinson’ Disease. It’s not the same for everybody who’s affected, but he can’t walk anymore and he has lost a lot of fine motor control with his hands. More important, he stopped coming to our class a few years ago. But when he called me a week ago and mentioned possibly coming back, my response was a very quick, ‘you bet, we all learn from each other in this class. C’mon over and test us out’. When I mentioned that we would be focusing on various perceptions of perspective for the next while, he agreed to my request that he bring some of his old work that might help me illustrate how we might view our model from our different locations.

Juan pulled out a series of “a previous student’s” (Bruce’s) works, arranging them carefully. The first was a portrait done in charcoal of a homeless man Charles, positioned to demonstrate the view of the model from Susan's chair. The brushed lines captured light and shadow in a dance of contrast that made the subject look bit flat and cartoon like.

Next came a study of an aged Dick Gregory, showing the three-quarter profile view from Juan's seated location.. The shadows played differently here, telling a different story of the similar human form. Sean Penn's graphite pencil portrait followed, a frontal view that Frank would have seen had his vision been intact. The absence of most shadows changed the entire character of the piece, creating what Susan called "even more beautiful."

"That's called Chiaroscuro, Susan," Bobby explained. "It sort of involves the interplay of contrasting light colors and dark ones."

Frank laughed. "Hey, Bobby - chee-arrow-scuro, right? Maybe all us black guys should start using that word. Like blindness, it could be the gift of color contrast."

A German man's portrait came next, as Eldridge might see the model, its form shadows precise and darker, demonstrating how light could be blocked somewhat entirely. The Arab lady, done in colored pencil and ink drew immediate attention from Bobby, her headdress textured with careful brushwork, her eyes carrying depths that spoke of stories untold.

And finally, a pastel portrait of Ron Jones, a Canadian friend of Bruce, from Vancouver. In near profile position, this portrait represents the perspective that Bill would have had drawing Maria.

As Juan arranged these works, I found myself thinking about the nature of perspective—not just in art, but in life. Each of us in that room carried our own limitations: my Parkinson's, Frank's blindness, Maria's deafness, Eldridge's hearing aids, and the invisible barriers each of us had built around our hearts. Yet here we were, wrestling with beauty and truth in our own ways.

Bobby's frustration had been building throughout the evening, finally erupting as Juan asked us to consider what beauty we had found in each perspective. "You know what Juan? His Arabic lady painting has a lot of beauty alright. The shadow work is fantastic, the texture of her headdress is well done, and quality of work on the eyes really shows his talent as an artist. But I've had enough talking and I'm goingto leave. This was supposed to have been a class where we could draw, not listen to your opinions on beauty or truth or whatever."

The silence following Bobby's departure hung heavy in the studio air. Juan stood quietly, his hand resting on the edge of an easel, eyes fixed on the empty chair Bobby had left behind. The remaining artists exchanged glances, the evening's lesson about perspective taking on an unexpected new dimension.

"You okay Juan? How you doin'?" Eldridge's voice carried genuine concern.

"I'm a bit discouraged," Juan admitted, "but anyone and everyone can leave at any time. We don’t all have to be friends.” His voice carried no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance that seemed to make Bobby's absence even more profound.

Bill remained in his seat, unusually still. I could see him wrestling with his loyalty to Bobby and his growing appreciation for Juan's methods. Finally, he spoke. "You're right Juan, Bobby is a pretty close friend. To be honest, I'm very disappointed that he's walked out on us. He's a real smart guy and I've learned a lot from him. But, to be honest, I think I can learn more right now from you and everybody here."

The next few days found me tossing and turning more than usual during my nighttime wrestling matches with insomnia. The image of Bobby's empty chair kept appearing in my mind, along with Juan's patient acceptance of his departure. When Juan called to invite me for coffee, I accepted immediately.

We met at a small bistro near the studio. Juan had chosen a corner table bathed in natural light from tall windows—ever the artist, always aware of lighting. He had brought a canvas with him, covered in brown paper, which he leaned carefully against the wall.

"Bruce," he began, stirring his coffee thoughtfully, “I’m not sure you realize how happy I am that you’ve decided to rejoin the drawing class. Having an older veteran along side gives me more credibility trying to teach and frankly guide some younger people with very different artistic toolboxes and unique personalities. I’ve been thinking about your PD and night wrestling. How you struggle with ideas in the dark hours. It reminds me somewhat of what we do as artists—wrestling with perception, with truth, with beauty."

I nodded, watching the tremor in my hand make ripples in my own coffee. "The thing about wrestling with Parkinson's," I said, "is that you never win. You just learn to dance with it differently each day. Some days you lead, some days you follow."

Juan smiled. "That's exactly what I try to teach in class, though I've never put it quite that way. Every perspective, every limitation, every challenge—they're all part of the dance." He reached for the covered canvas. "I want to show you something."

As he unwrapped the canvas, I recognized it as one he had been working on for years. It showed a circle of artists, each focused on their work, but the center of the circle—where the model should have been—was blank, untouched.

"I've been unable to finish this," Juan admitted. "Something's missing. I thought at first it needed a model in the center, but now I'm not so sure. After watching Frank feel Maria's face, after seeing how Eldridge reads lips to compensate for his hearing aids, after observing how Bill's loyalty wrestles with his desire to grow—I'm beginning to think the empty space is the point."

“You know, Juan, maybe the unfinished canvas itself is the truth," I suggested.

"Exactly. Look at Bobby—he's technically gifted, but he stops at technique. He sees the shadows and light, but he doesn't want to wrestle with what they might mean. It looks to me, Bobby doesn't want to dance with uncertainty."

I thought about my own unfinished canvases, both literal and metaphorical. "You know, when I first started showing symptoms of Parkinson's, I wanted to hide it. I was afraid my tremors would ruin my drawings. But something interesting happened—the tremors changed my line quality. They added something I never could have planned."

Juan leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest. "That's precisely what I'm trying to help my students understand. Our limitations aren't obstacles—they're opportunities for a different kind of truth. Like Maria's deafness giving her a heightened awareness of visual beauty, or Frank's blindness leading him to understand faces through touch."

I glanced at his unfinished canvas again. "You know, I've been thinking about what Keats wrote, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” Maybe the truth isn't in what we see, but in how we see it. And when it comes right down to it knowledge of beauty won’t ever be enough.

As we left the bistro, the late afternoon light created long shadows across the sidewalk. Juan carried his unfinished canvas, and I carried a new understanding of my night wrestling. Perhaps the true art isn't in the finished piece, but in a willing engagement with uncertainty, in the courage to keep drawing despite the tremors, in the ability to see beauty in the unfinished.

The next week's class will have a full house, with chairs arranged in a complete circle around the stage. Some artists will see only the back of the model, some the profile, others the full face. But now I understand. Each perspective, limited though it might be, is essential to the whole truth. And somewhere out there, Bobby may be wrestling with his own unfinished canvas, perhaps discovering that the very limitations he fights against might be the key to his artistic breakthrough. After all, as my trembling hand has shown me, sometimes the most beautiful lines are not the ones we planned to draw.