The Blank Canvas

The brush glided across the blank canvas, enveloping it in a torrent of color. Cerulean blues, ruby reds, burnt oranges, magentas, and emerald greens replaced the white that was once present. His hand slid from one edge to the opposite, seamlessly devouring the sheet. The whirlwind of shade and dimension gave way to a new era, the brilliant, unseen aspect of the imagination. Broad, substantial brushstrokes did not undermine the delicate beauty of the slender stripes, and the serrated, bizarre shapes did not wane the strength of the uniform figures. He stared at his masterpiece, finally complete.
From his current position in his garden, Allen gently plucked the canvas from its arrangement on the stand and carried it indoors, where it was to be dried. He wondered what she would make of his painting, hoping that she would attempt to make anything of it at all, especially in the current state of their relationship. Most would stare at the abstract, unable to comprehend its true meaning, or make their own connotation from it. In contrast, she would always feel or experience something, on the occasions that Allen had requested she look at a certain image of his.
* * *
The first time he had ever brought her one of his paintings was a few months in to their relationship. When coming to Allen’s house for dinner, she would always compliment him on the pieces he had hung on his walls, so in order to surprise her, he had spent weeks working on a single painting, probably one of his best, and he was going to give it to her just in time for her birthday.
Allen held his work of art, its brilliant colors boasted their unwavering beauty. The cherry reds and vivacious oranges were dazzling against the jet-black background. His passionate brushstrokes forced the attention of its viewers, however, the thin golden stripes did much to accentuate its beauty. She came over for dinner that night, and just before she arrived, he had laid out what he knew to be her favorite dinner. The warmth of the steam and the aroma of the mouth-watering steak diffused across the minute room. Across from the dishes on the table was the painting, veiled. He finished his final touches on the steak, placing it on the counter as well and strolled over to the door, where she stood waiting. She breathed in the heavy scent that surrounded her.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, “it smells absolutely amazing!”
“Bon a petite, my dear,” Allen replied.
He took her by the hand and led her to the table where she took her seat. Allen stood right behind her and gently brushed her hair away from her ear.
He whispered, “Happy early birthday,” as she turned her head to the masked painting that sat at the head of the table.
She gasped. “Can I unveil it right now?” she asked.
“Of course!” Allen replied, thrilled by her anticipation.
Carefully, she uncovered the piece and stared at it for a few minutes. There was silence, as she examined the various components. Meanwhile, Allen took a seat right beside her and watched her as she gazed at his painting.
After a few moments, she lifted her head and pointed at the thick brush strokes. “You painted this about our relationship, didn’t you?”
Without a reply, she continued, “the thick lines represent, let’s see, our passion and our art intertwined. It represents the substantial foundation that holds our relationship together, the true love that we share. Then, the golden slender lines, I think they represent the little things, like giving presents on my birthday. They’re golden because they are what most relationships are based off of, the insignificant materialistic things, but our bond isn’t based off that because we’re artists. We know things that most people never even care to learn, beauty, lust, true devotion to work …This piece, it’s our entire relationship painted on to a blank canvas. I love it…”
Allen slowly smiled, and he placed his hand under her chin, willing her to look at him. He gently brought her close and brushed his lips against hers. She held on, and they gave way to passion, their two bodies becoming one. He remembered thinking that she was the woman he had dreamed of. She understood him like no one else could, not even his parents, who were discontent with his decision to become an artist and forced him to go to college and get a degree in accounting, what they believed to be a stable yet rewarding job. However, Allen didn’t care for staring at rows and rows of dreary numbers all day and wasting away in the back of an office. He wanted to create and form. He wanted to make a life for himself that he had yearned for, ever since he was a child, a life full of ardor and zeal. He yearned to be with someone who wanted those things as well.
* * *
To Allen, the most unique aspect of her is that she could truly “see,” a gift that most lack, a rare quality that allows a person to apply their imagination to the real world. Perhaps this was why he was so attracted to her; they shared an artistic conception. Although she had ended their relationship because of certain complexities he believed they could fix, Allen had created this painting for her, to win her back, to persuade her in to the mass of color that she had once known as home, the life they had shared together. It had been several weeks since he had seen her, and during that period of time, Allen had thrown himself in to his work, recreating his fury, incredulity, and sorrow in to a form of beauty.
Allen placed his work on a drying rack, and he rushed to the bathroom in order to rid his hands of the superfluous paint that was unfortunate enough to never land on his painting. Instead of being an additional piece to a work of abstract art, it was condemned to a fatal doom, being enveloped in the white-washed canvas of the sink. Once drying his hands, he returned to the drying rack, reassuring the security of the piece. Then he resumed what he believed to be the most tedious aspect of art, waiting. The time when seconds stretched to the point of exasperation and the clock seemed to be ticking at an even slower rate for the sole purpose of mocking him. The seconds passed by with ridicule, and the mere thought of hours tantalized Allen.
Finally, the torment had ceased, for the liquid that had once gushed across the sheet had now dried, becoming unyielding, unalterable, the final product. With this newfound realization, he gently grasped the painting and brought it to his car. On the journey to her apartment, his enthusiasm built up until he was an inflated balloon so full of air that he was on the verge of popping. When her residence was within view, he immediately sensed a difference, a discrepancy. No longer were there soggy clothes pinned to a continuous line to the left of her front door. She couldn’t afford a dryer, the price to pay for pursuing a life of art.
Allen cautiously unfastened the lock of the gate, and it slid open with a deafening creak. Posted on the door was a note. Sensing a glitch, he brought out the set of keys that she had gifted to him during their relationship and had forgotten to take back, and as he slid the ragged edge in to the door and attempted to turn, the key wouldn’t move. It was unalterable. He then took glanced in to the house through the window that was adjacent to the front door, and all Allen saw was the repulsive white of the walls and the remote barrenness of the empty rooms. Finally, he turned to the note, hoping to find that his first impression was fallacious.
He stared at the bland sheet of paper with monotonous jet-black type, and Allen backed away from the door in incredulity, absolute disbelief. He had known she was struggling. Weren’t they all? The constant bills heaped on the kitchen table were the unvarying reminder of the wealth that was just out of the common artist’s reach. Allen felt that he should have been there to support her, to aid her when she was falling through the cracks. Allen shouldn’t have left when she told him of her need for their relationship to end. He shouldn’t have walked away from her doorstep. She needed him. Couldn’t he have been able to tell from the tears cascading down her face as she waved her final goodbyes?
Maybe, the ability to “see” was a curse rather than a blessing. This quality made people like Allen unable to live a stable life, one that would provide him security and enable him to provide it to the ones he held most dear. Rather than safety and reassurance, art had provided him joy, passion, but this notice had crushed the joy he once had. The ability to create beauty was under the control of the artist who had the unvarying power to master it, and that came with a cost. It was a balance that yearned to be kept stable, but somehow, it was always tipping to one side or the other. Finally, Allen’s scale had tipped to the breaking point, and he realized that she was the one who kept him at a balance. She was the one who kept him stable or at least she had given him the false sense of security that urged him to continue his art despite the normal challenges of life coming his way, and with that, Allen wondered if he had ever provided her with as much refuge as she had provided him. Now, she had been removed from her home, and he would never receive the opportunity to paint another piece for her, to anticipate her reaction.
He rushed to his car, parked just outside of the gate and removed his “masterpiece” from the backseat. He scoffed at what he once thought of as beauty. Could beauty take away what he truly loved, Alan contemplated. He began his rampage, strewing the cerulean blues, ruby reds, burnt oranges, magentas, and emerald greens across the concrete. His precise brushstrokes were lost in the utter chaos and disorder, and the shapes were left as mere fragments. Allen trudged to his Camry, and began the engine, staring at the remains, searching his mind for alternatives to the inevitable brutality that comes with being an artist. He thought back to his parents, how they had forced him to earn a degree in accounting, how they begged and pleaded for his sanity. Tears rolled down his face as he realized that they must have been right, for if he had chosen a different lifestyle, another passion, Allen wouldn’t have had to tolerate the immense feeling of loss. It takes great joy to know great pain, and no matter how much happiness Allen had received from his art, nothing could erase the aching that tainted it.
Unable to look, he backed up in to the street. His mind was no longer cluttered, and he was able to think clearly. No longer were those colors trapping him in their beauty. He was not subject to the spell they cast on him. Allen was not imprisoned by the will of his art, and he moved forward, cutting the chains that had once forged a deep bond between him and his “masterpieces.” With these thoughts, Allen drove on, with a black canvas in mind.