I place the painting on an easel in my home studio, stepping back to survey the finished picture. It was probably stupid to carry it home before it fully dried, but I didn’t want to leave it at school over break.
As Mrs. White said, it’s probably my best work so far, and honestly, part of me wants Pappa to see it. Maybe he’ll look it over and say, “You know, I can see it now—you’re not wasting your time—you are meant to be an artist after all.”
Right. And maybe the Hemsworth brothers are human beings and not Elven. Ha.
Ah—you’re home. Why were you late?
Pappa’s question makes me jump. He entered the studio without me hearing him.
I spin around to face him. “Just wrapping things up before spring break.” Stepping to the side so the painting is no longer obscured by my body, I gesture to it. “I was finishing my latest piece.”
He glances at it. “The meadow near the lake. Yes, well, it looks like it, I guess.” Then he turns and heads for the door. “Don’t waste too much more time in here. You need to pack—you have the early flight out tomorrow.” And he leaves.
Hope drains from my chest like air leaking from a beach ball with the plug pulled out. Slowly I turn to face the painting again. In the afternoon light coming through the wall of windows, the colors appear even more vibrant than they did in the art room at school. The grasses seem to dance with their own energy, and I can practically smell the breeze across the meadow, hear the tiny insects moving among the spring flowers that dot the landscape.
I suppose it does “look like” the meadow by the lake near our home. Something any cheap camera could capture.
Crossing the room to the supply closet, I lift a can of white paint and a roller tray and carry it across the room. I pry off the lid and pour it, filling the well of the tray. Then I go back to the closet and find the tool I need. A roller brush.
As I dip the roller into the tray and rock it back and forth, a tear plops into the paint, raising a tiny splash. Lifting the brush, I roll it across the center of the canvas. Vertically. Horizontally. Diagonal slashes back and forth, up and down, until the meadow scene has disappeared entirely behind a wall of blank visual silence.
Some masterpiece.