The Artist

Blank and empty. The canvas burned with nothing but the dreams of mountains, valleys, plains and deserts. His idea of a flawless encapsulation of the vastness of his own mind was unfounded. The painter’s ambition shone too brightly; he rejected common sense and instead adopted a bleak conviction. His ignorance is imprudent and ill fated. The painter’s canvas remains blank, but the dreams of art scintillating with purpose swim vigorously in his mind.

The artist sees the potential in the untouched canvas, but doesn’t move for his brush. Blended and mixed streaks of perfection tremble at his fingertips, but he doesn’t seek any paint. The painter is blessed; he inherited the prodigious gift of foresight, of ambition. He explores great fantasies and magnificent portraits, all of his own creation. He creates universes that brim with the potential of a billion lives. The painter sees roses and sunflowers, he sees the moon and all of her shining stars, he sees infinities beyond the canvas, but he’s frozen still.

He is without ambition, and yet he is fulfilled by the certainty of his purpose and his beaming optimism.

With the canvas resting at his side, the artist waits. He sits, patiently awaiting the bells to signal noon and set him on his journey. He knows of mountains and valleys and brilliant conceptions of life’s greatest complexities, but never of any paint. The artist is not a painter himself, the artist is the painter of all selves, the purveyor of knowledge.

Only seconds after the ringing touched his rapt ears, the artist is up and out the door in a flurry of dexterous movement, with infinities to bestow.

The artist stepps out into the calm, clement air of the neighborhood with a soft smile on his face. He strides stolidly down the sidewalk, pushing his famed cart, in a divine, pearly white tuxedo, allowing the gentle breeze to make waves with his long black hair. The artist offers perspective; he serves as a lighthouse for residents of the neighborhood. Under clear skies and a gentle sun, hundreds of deliveries are to be made, so he begins. The artist walks with the wind, never against it and maybe as part of it, knowing of the beauty that will come from these houses in this neighborhood, soon.

Stopping at every house, he walks to the door, knocks twice and then simply leaves the double-sided canvas propped up next to the door of every house in the neighborhood. The artist spreads his vision with certainty; he brings to every doorstop a glimpse of his mind, of their own mind, and of infinities beyond both.

The confused recipients turn the canvas over in their hands, scanning the streets for a sign of who may have presented the curious gift. Nothing. They find nothing but the daily ho-hum atmosphere of the suburb. Over and over, the recipients turn the canvas in their hands. Two-sided and abstract. The canvas burns with something brilliant, something that the wonderstruck residents would treasure forever.

Blank and empty. The blazing white canvas is a flawless encapsulation of the painter’s vibrant mind. Each gift is devoid of color, but overflowing with ardency and purpose. At the center of every painting is a small, square mirror. The mirror lay perfectly in the center of the canvas, which brims with potential. Each recipient stares through the glass and back into their own eyes, their own brilliance. The beholder, then, gleans a revelation; art need not be anything but a reflection of the world in which it was conceived.

Having crafted the masterpieces, which would proudly rest on the walls of enlightened residents, the painter sleeps soundly, dreaming of the potential that quivers at the fingertips of an artist.

I hope you've enjoyed the first of my free write blog posts. This idea was sparked by real events and deep introspection in my own life, and I hope you are able to glean as much reading as I did writing. All discussion/feedback is welcome in the comments. Have an exceptional week, fellow Steemians!

Best Wishes,

Bryant Young