The Masterpiece

Sam dipped the tip of her paintbrush in brown paint. She looked at the brush and then at the canvas. She shook her head and wiped the paint back off the brush.

She took a deep breath and looked at the canvas again. What had been clear in her mind just a moment earlier was now as obscure as a dream fading as someone awakens.

Her canvas sat on the easel mocking her, telling her she was never going to be a painter. She had painted many pictures and most of them were stunning, but this picture, this picture she could not master.

It was all quite simple; she knew what she wanted to paint. For some reason, her mind just could not make it happen.  

It had to start with the stroke of a brush and yet she could not do it. she had dipped her brush in nearly every color on her pallet and wiped it off again.

Sam knew, for her, the first stroke was the hardest. Once she got the first stroke on the canvas, the painting would come to life. That first stroke was the most important. The first stroke set the tone for the rest of the painting.

The brush trembled in her hand, so much so that she could hardly hold it. she put the brush down and took a step away from the easel. She turned her back and closed her eyes.

In her minds eye she saw the painting that had yet to appear. Sam took a deep breath and turned back around. She opened her eyes and picked the brush back up.

She lightly dabbed the tip of the brush in the green paint and looked at it. Perhaps this was it, the first stroke. She gently reached her arm out to put paint to canvas but froze. Sam questioned herself, was green the she really wanted to start with?

Her arm dropped to her side and the brush fell to the floor. Tears crested her lower eyelids and rolled onto her cheek. The tears slowly crept down her cheeks. Sam dropped to her knees and looked at the floor, eyes clouded.

She heard a voice in her head telling her to get up. The voice was so insistent that Sam was compelled to do as it said.

She collected the brush in her fingers and lifted back to her feet. She cleaned the paint off her brush and set the brush back on the table at her side.

Sam set the pallet down next to the brush and walked across the room. She looked at the canvas from a distance and in her minds eye, saw the painting she was to transform the canvas into.

She gazed at the canvas for a long time looking for a starting point. Her mind flooded with so many ideas about where she could start that she froze in place.

After some time, she knew she had to start, she knew she could no longer put off the inevitable, first stroke.  

She stepped toward the canvas slowly and intently. As she drew closer, she saw a corner.

This corner had been unclear in her minds eye and thus, she did not know what color was supposed to be there. In that revelation, she knew that it mattered little, what color she put there because no particular color belonged there.

Sam slowly and purposefully reached out for the brush. When the brush was firm in her hand, she collected the pallet.

She drew a deep breath and without looking dobbed the brush into a color on the pallet. Shed reached out with the brush, avoiding looking at tip. She touched the canvas with the yet unknown color and gently slid the tip on the canvas.

The deed had been done, there was not turning back. The first stroke was on the canvas.

She looked at mark she had made with her brush and to her surprise, the color and placement were perfect.

Like a bolt of lightning, that first stroke had immitted a spark that ignited a fire inside her. She followed the first stroke with another and another.

Soon the canvas was awash with color. Her hand could hardly keep up with her mind. Brushstroke after brushstroke the image began to emerge. This happened even more quickly than she could have imagined.

She was overwhelmed by the plethora of colors and shapes that had taken over the canvas. It was as if she had lost control of the brush and paint.

Her arm grew tired, but she had no choice but to pushed on.

Her eyes could hardly focus on the canvas for the colors that had washed upon it. She was soon unaware of was her mind that was in control or if it was instinct that had caused this visible symphony of pigmentation.

Before she realized it, she had added the last brushstroke. Her breathing was labored, and hands were shaking.

She took a couple steps back to examine what she had created but her eyes could not focus.

She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands over her face, rubbing her eyes gently with her palms. She drew a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and slowly released the air from her lungs.

Sam put her hands on the floor and opened her eyes. her vision was still not clear.

She covered her eyes with her palms again and allowed a little more time for her vision to clear.

Sam raised to her feet and dropped his hands to her sides. With her head pointed downward, she slowly opened her eyes allowing the light to enter a little bit at a time.

When her vision became clear, she gently raised her head.

Her painting came into focus. The vibrant colors leapt off the canvas as if they had a life of their own.

Sam was in shock and had to gasped for breath.

She closed her eyes and reopened them. She began examining what she had done.

Sam was overwhelmed. With a brush and some paint, she had transformed a blank canvas into an incredible work of art.

Tears of joy filled her eyes.