The Artist

The studio is dark this time of day as shadows comfort the naked spaces. Finished pieces wait to be framed in wood. Specks on white paper frown at ruined chances of mantel places. Oily brushes with broken bristle long for a sculpted hand to dance with.

The perfume of turpentine tickles senses as rays peak in, spotlighting the angles and emptiness of the room. The clock beats and the street din below echo.

His knees limber over the workman’s stool; the one with the squeaky wheels, accustomed to moving here. Unassuming, he nestles attuned to his masterpiece, that for now is not more than blues and greens and hues of purple swirled, mixed, and bent.

The hair at his shoulders hangs carelessly, yet somehow still flawless. His concern for the detail obvious in every stroke and  with every caress of brush. In dipping of paint. And fixing of error.  Crumpled handkerchief low at his pocket, dirty and grimy; needed.  His eyes gaze intently and considerately, weighing what has been lay down, to the white space where lilies and lovers have yet to grace pages.  He’s the painter we’ve been longing for.

The canvas sits exposed before Him, coming to life at His touch; unadorned without Him.  In strokes intimate and careful, the artist and his brush create beauty from ashes, meaning from matter, movement from what stands still. Stretched cloth crying out for his design. His deity. Him divine.

And in the mystery of his motion, our souls are stirred; our lives more beautiful. Needing the painter to grace our corners, and color our landscapes. Unveiling a story that at first or last glance, moves hearts to meet this art Maker.