An Artistic Eye

George never intended to use his gift. It would paint him as strange, even scary, definitely an outcast—when all he wanted to do was just paint. He was content creating landscapes. Wispy gray clouds over rolling rural hills that conveyed his wanderlust for simpler scenery. Not the crowded steel giants that loomed outside. 

He’d even sketch the occasional still life. A vase of market-fresh carnations. A lone copper kettle and thrift shop tea cup. He’d occasionally bring his fruit bowl into the spotlight, even if the bananas were more brown than yellow. 

But portraits were off limits. 

Until Daisy. 

She was every artist's dream. An understated muse whose expressions exuded enough emotion it was like they could illustrate themselves. Her sharp facial features were as distinct as a bold pencil line—from her streamlined brow to the lift of her signature smirk. 

But when it came to the curves of her body, George imagined they would be best captured by gentle watercolor hues. Her movements flowed like a babbling brook. The air around her was not only freshly fragrant but soft like morning sun through fog. 

Her presence captivated George. Her image sweetened his sleep. Her eyes were the forbidden fruit that would force him to use his gift, even if it meant being discovered and vilified. 

***

On the day they met, the bell tinkled above the cafe door. George never paid attention to it before. But on this day, it seemed to ring a little louder. A gust of wind blew rust-colored leaves behind her like an evening gown train. He watched her walk to the counter. Her clicking heels echoed in his mind. That sweet smirk appeared when she greeted the barista. She effortlessly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear on the way out. She stole a glance at George, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of her since the tinkling bell. Her nod snapped him out of his trance. The door bell sounded again and she was gone. A tiny cyclone of leaves in her wake. 

George returned to the cafe every day at the same time to catch another glimpse. While he waited, he’d doodle her features in fragments. Her booted feet. The ballet position of her waiting legs. The hint of a midriff between worn-in jeans and leather jacket. Her crossed arms in decision-making mode. Her slender fingers folding back her hair. The curve of her neck. The fullness of her lips. Her dimpled cheeks. Her angled nose. 

George wavered. He considered the consequences of what would happen next, but he proceeded anyway.

As he outlined her brow, he fussed with the texture of the fine hairs. He shaded the lids to mimic her shadow. He made sure the lashes feathered lusciously on the top and bottom. 

He held his breath. Outlining the iris, he imagined the flecks of color even though he drew in charcoal. He guessed green and gold to match a field of wildflowers. Then, when he finally finished the pupil—just a dark dot in the middle of a soulful pool—it happened. 

The feathered lashes flickered on the page as the shaded lid closed briefly before fluttering open again. 

George slammed his notebook shut. He shouldn’t do this. It felt too personal, too private. As desperately as he wanted to see her again, to find out the true color of her eyes—to see them wink in real life—he'd have to wait for her to come back. 

***

It only took a few days, but it felt like an eternity to George. 

He was at his usual table. He watched her pass the window. He waited for the bell. No clicking heels this time. Her sneakered feet squeaked across the floor to the counter. Same smirk. Same order. Same nod. But she hesitated before passing George. 

George hoped she’d stop. He smiled up at her, but it felt forced. 

She tucked her hair again and was gone. 

George’s heart panged as he lightly punched his notebook. He opened it to her sketches. Paused before he turned to her eyes. Lifted the corner, and slowly peeled back the page. There it was again. George could swear he saw a gleam in her wink.

“Hi,” a voice whispered.

George slammed the book shut. That never happened before.

“I’m sorry, am I—”

The voice was still there, behind him.

George spun to face her. His muse. 

“Hi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“Hi, no, please,” George moved his bag from the seat next to him. 

She sat. “Thanks, I saw you drawing and wanted to ask…” she tucked her hair and was close enough for George to know for sure. Her eyes were crystal pools with gray whisps, as vast as the sky in his landscapes. 

“Are you an artist?” Her question was innocent enough, but artist danced from her lips in such a seductive way that George blushed.

He tucked his chin in a nod and tapped his notebook.

“Do you know of any classes in the area?” This question rushed out before she reined in her excitement. “I recently moved to town and would love to get back into watercolor.” 

George was less excited, recalling the first painting class he ever took. Drawing a self-portrait, then seeing the horror in everyone’s eyes as his image popped from the canvas like a Jack-in-the-box. 

But this was also an opportunity to see Daisy again. To get close as he showed her the proper paint strokes. Could he offer himself as her teacher? Would that be weird? They would stay away from eyes. 

Daisy’s crystal pools swirled with hope as she waited for a response.

George didn’t have any advice other than go for it. 

So he decided to go for it. 

“Watercolor is one of my favorite mediums,” he said, trying to contain himself. “I’d be happy to share some tips.”

She smiled and her cheeks glowed.

“I’m Daisy, by the way,” she said, extending her hand.

“George,” he took her hand and wanted to kiss it. Instead he shook it gently before releasing her slender fingers and counting the seconds before he could touch them again.

They spent the next hour gushing over van Gogh, O’Keeffe, and Wyeth. Then they took a walk while discussing underpainting, layering, and scumbling techniques. They just so happened to end up outside of George’s studio. 

“I could show you some of my work,” George said looking up at the building. 

Daisy stalled and the world seemed to stop spinning. “Maybe tomorrow?”

George glanced in time to see her blink. He blew out a gust of relief. He’d have to hide any watchful eyes looming in his loft. 

***

Luckily Daisy didn’t ask to start with portraits. 

Every week was a new landscape. They visited reflective lakes, seasonal forests, majestic mountains, and witnessed the sun rise and set—all from George’s naturally lit studio. 

On dry watercolor paper, they added wet paint to create precise peaks and grass blades. Once the paint dried, they’d layer semi-wet strokes for softer hues. They’d mix earthy shades in the water, watching them swirl and scientifically shift from blue to green with a splash of yellow. 

When Daisy wanted to add a bird to the scenery, George showed her the power of a stark silhouette with a dry brush dipped in black. He wasn’t going to release a lark into his loft again.

Then they moved on to still life. He would fill every available container with different blooms. Puffy peonies in a plastic pitcher, vibrant sunflowers wrapped in craft paper, and classic roses in every shade arranged in mason jars. When Daisy wanted to add George’s cat for scale, he suggested a sleeping version. After these sessions, he insisted Daisy take the flowers home…to practice. 

One day Daisy brought in a framed photo she wanted to replicate. A woman and child sat on a beach blanket, watching the waves roll in.

Taking a closer look at the image, George relaxed his shoulders. The subjects’ backs were toward the camera. 

George blew out a breath. “It’s lovely,” he said.

“It’s me and my mother,” Daisy smiled tenderly at the image.

They got to work layering the sky, sea, and sand before adding the faceless figures in the foreground.  

***

Months went by and their watercolor collection piled up on every flat surface around George’s loft. They covered countless landscapes, street scenes, architecture, plants, and pieces of furniture. George knew it was only a matter of time before…

“What about portraits?” Daisy asked. 

George tried to keep his expression subdued. “Faces are…difficult to capture,” he stretched the truth. Daisy’s fascinating features and exquisite expressions lived rent-free in his mind and notebook. But it was too risky. Once he drew her eyes and the painting came to life, Daisy would run for the real hills. George would never see her again. He couldn’t let that happen. 

Why did eyes have this enchanting effect? George didn’t know for sure. Who was he going to ask without revealing this freakish experience? From his research, he gathered that eyes were the window to the soul. The soul is a representation of life. He left it at that, and left the eyes out of his work as much as he could. 

Daisy didn’t like the idea of faceless subjects. “Expression can tell you so much more than a silhouette.”

George couldn’t argue, but he didn’t like the idea of losing his muse. This connection felt deeper than attraction. He doesn't draw eyes and risk ridicule for just anyone. He had to see this through. 

But one day Daisy brought in her sketchbook. George should have seen this coming. 

“You were absolutely right,” she said. “I can’t get these eyes to shine.” She flipped to the page and thrust the book toward George. “Help!” she pleaded playfully. 

But George backed away like the book was on fire. “Oh, no!” he yelped.

“They’re not that bad, are they?” she whimpered, frowning at her penciled portraits. 

George placed his hand on her shoulder. “No, ‘course not, sorry,” he stuttered. “I’m just…eyes are…” George was better with images than words. “I’ll show you.”

They sat down together on his window seat overlooking the city. George flipped to a fresh page in Daisy’s book and angled toward her. He reacquainted himself with every curve, line, and freckle on her face. 

The neon glow from the neighboring building set her features in a rosy tint. She stared back at George. Her eyes radiated wonder. 

George took a deep breath and put pencil to paper. 

“You start with a circle,” he said, focused on his own fingers making the sphere. “It may be easier to separate the face into four equal horizontal quadrants.” George made a faint mark as he named each section. “One for the hair line, brow line, nose line, and chin line.” He glanced up at Daisy to see if she was following along. She was transfixed on his rudimentary outline. He felt inspired to continue. 

As he sketched, Daisy would make awestruck murmurs as the facial features transformed from a small circle to a petite nose, a series of dashes to pouty lips, and angled lines to eyebrows. 

“You make it look so easy,” she said. 

George grimaced. If only she knew how difficult this was for him. He considered not telling her about his gift. Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Maybe she wouldn’t run. 

He filled in the rest of her features, from her parted fringe and scar above her brow to her freckled nose and dimpled chin. 

“I look a little weird without eyes,” she laughed. 

Things are about to get weirder. George wanted to say. Instead, he gazed at Daisy, deep into her crystal pools. He wished he could count the gray whisps. He squinted, trying to lock her look of anticipation into his brain. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. And turned back to the page. 

First he cupped his hand around the drawing like he was in a classroom full of cheaters. 

“Hey, no fair,” Daisy giggled.

Then he scooted back against the window. He brought his feet up on the bench and leaned the book against his legs. His lips twitched and pursed as Daisy groaned.

“Fine, I won’t peek.” She crossed her arms and scooted back to where the window met the wall. 

George filled in the designated eye areas. Daisy’s lids were more shaded with suspicion, but equally as beautiful. 

He finished the right eye first and immediately covered it with his free hand. He didn’t want to know yet. He glanced up at Daisy as she traced droplets of rain racing down the window. He stole a few more minutes of contented peace. They could be his last. 

She caught him staring and perked up. “Finished?”

He raised his pencil like a please hold finger. He soaked up these final moments. The rain gently tapped the window like a ticking clock. And when he finally filled in the last pupil, he paused. He lifted his right hand to see her whole portrait. Then he fixed his gaze on Daisy once more.

“Okay,” he started, rolling his shoulders up like a retreating turtle. “Please don’t be alarmed.”

Daisy rolled her eyes and snickered. “Oh, please, come on.”

George took one last look at Daisy—in real life and on paper—before turning the book around.

Daisy stopped laughing. Her eyes widened, then squinted. She gasped.

George held his breath, but he kept the book up, frozen in fear. 

Daisy’s head tilted to the left. Then right. Her eyes softened when she looked at George then back at the page, her pursed lips questioning.

George nodded. 

“It’s…”

“I should have…”

“It’s incredible,” Daisy sighed.

“It is?” George couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad kind of incredible. 

But Daisy’s smirk reappeared. It broke into a smile that she hid with her slender fingers before folding her hair back and leaning toward George on the window seat. 

George sat up straight.

Daisy pushed the book down.

“You’re incredible,” she whispered. 

George watched her eyes gleam—just like they did in the sketchbook—right before Daisy leaned in the rest of the way, laid her palm on George’s cheek, and pressed her full lips onto his.