Lines, shapes, composition, proportions, contrast, color. With eyes closed the girl thought of each element as she stared at the canvas. Again, she thought of each one, moving them slowly in her mind. She focused on the picture in her mind, one that she had collected days before and stored it for this very moment. The paintbrush was in hand, her legs crossed in front of her as she sat on the floor. The light of the rain sodden day did not reach her table and so she sat before a stout easel and closed her eyes to picture the lines, which made the shapes. Shapes that would be arranged in a composition and then the manipulation of each shapes proportions. Where the light would start and fall, where the shadows would be placed. And then lastly, and most wonderfully that color. The color that would stem from the three primaries and fill the canvas with life.
The water that she would use to mix her colors sat at her right. The palette on her lap held only four colors, but that was all she would need. And still, with the image in her head, her canvas was only a blank neutral hue of a base coat. Violet eyes opened, her hand moving to the canvas and the lines sprouting from the end of her paintbrush like one of her mother’s flowers. She needed to just let it flow, let it be a song from a birds mouth. Natural, instinctual. Her hand needed to move and the picture needed to appear, just as when the morning dove’s beak opened its words were music. Three strokes, four… and she leaned back. And hated it. A frustration rolled in her chest. And a growl came from her depths. She stood, palette in paw and walked to the end of the room just to turn and stare at it from afar.
Gods, she hated it.
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