A Blank Canvas

T he trees lining the sidewalk were filled with colorful leaves, half-covering the little signs of vintage shops. Fallen leaves, along with some trash, blanketed the road. The chatter of impatient people filled the once-quiet neighborhood, coming from a lengthy line of future artists stretching along the block. The air was chill, stinging the faces of those outdoors. A man and a woman were among the line, the only two patiently waiting. That is, until now.

“I’m done waiting,” the man said. He tightened his scarf around his neck, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them up.

“You must. We must remain patient. Time will come,” the woman responded, looking straight ahead.

“You know I’m always patient. But, is that all we do in life—wait?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“We are remaining patient. We have the opportunity to attend a workshop with a very well-known artist.”

“Yet people are still unhappy.”

“Of course, and yet we have the opportunity to create a masterpiece. We have the opportunity to put our abilities to the test.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure where I would even begin.”

“Don’t worry about it. You will know.”

“How?”

“When the time comes, inspiration will find you.”

“You are sounding very wise right now. But, currently, all I can think about is unhappiness. The people in this line have the opportunity of a lifetime, yet they are still unhappy with the wait.”

“I mean, we all struggle to find happiness.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I do not. I find happiness in people like you, Pearl.”

“You will never truly be happy on this planet.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you see that sign over there, Jett?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“What color is it?”

“It is white.”

“Exactly, white. Plain white like a blank canvas.”

“Yes, it is only one color, yet the shop brings in new customers daily.”

“Everyone is used to the color white. It is everywhere. It is the beginning that can easily go to waste.”

“How so?”

“You could keep a blank white canvas in front of you forever and never do anything with it.”

“Many things go unnoticed and end up wasted.”

“That is very true.”

“But, what do you mean everyone is used to the color white?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Why?”

“Because it matches with everything.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“You like to match.”

“Yeah, most people do.”

“Precisely my point; people like to match.”

“Okay, why do you think that is?”

“Do you see the trees lining the sidewalk?”

“Yes, Pearl. They are everywhere; how could you not?”

“Well, things you see all the time easily go unnoticed.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

“Oh, don’t you go down that path again.”

“As I was saying, have you ever kept a favorite leaf of yours?”

“Yeah, of course. I did it all the time when I was a kid.”

“Why would you pick that certain leaf?”

“Because it was just prettier than the others.”

“Of course. All the leaves are different. They are all unique.”

“Yet people choose the ones they find prettier.”

“People admire the leaves that are your usual pretty color, like the bright red ones. The other leaves easily go unnoticed, for they are different. People do not like things that are different,” the woman laughed to herself.

“That’s for sure,” the man sighed.

The man and woman had finally reached the building. They entered, filled with the excitement of improving their artwork. They took their seats in front of the blank canvases. Their instructor, a well-known female artist, handed out paints of all colors. The man stared at the blank white canvas, squeezing out a little of each color onto his paint pallet.

“Paint what is in your heart,” the instructor encouraged.

“I don’t know where to begin,” the man groaned, glancing back and forth between all the colors.

“Your paintings reflect the person you are on the inside. Remember that.”

“Which color should I start with?” The man turned to his friend.

“I don’t know, whatever color you want,” the woman replied, turning back to her canvas. She did not know where to start either.

“Should I start with the primary colors?”

“Stop asking me. It is your painting, not mine.”

“Just answer me, should I?

“Just because all the other colors come from the primary ones doesn’t mean they are any less im-

“No.”

“Well, all colors stem from the primary colors in one way or another, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Even though they all came from the primary ones, do you think they are any less important?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Jett, listen to me. In a tree, all the leaves are attached to the branches which stem from the trunk. Correct?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“Are the leaves any less important than the trunk?”

“Well, in the winter, tree trunks survive without leaves.”

“Yes, but there is a time limit on how long they can go without them.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and all leaves are unique. They’re all different colors aren’t they?”

“Yeah, yet people favor the more colorful ones.”

“Yes, but they are all the same.”

“Not color-wise.”

“No, but in the sense that they all end up on the ground, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they all fall at some point.”

“So, are the other colors any less important than the primary ones?”

“No, each color has a message, right?”

“Yes, but colors don’t matter. What’s behind them is more important.”

The instructor, having overheard their conversation, said, “Correct. When you paint, you are telling your own story. So, what kind of story are you trying to tell?”

The man glanced out the window, noticing the plain white sign in front of the little shop across the street. He picked up his paintbrush, dipping it in the black paint. He began to paint a stroke, but halfway down the canvas, he stopped.

“Why are you stopping?” The instructor asked.

“I-I don’t know.”

“What is stopping you?”

“Fear,” the man practically whispered.

“What are you afraid of?” His friend, the woman, asked.

“What aren’t people afraid of?”

“People fear many, many things.”

“I fear judgment.”

“No one here is going to judge you.”

“Yeah, no one here, but what about elsewhere?”

The instructor butted in, “Paint your story. Only think about what you will see, not others. So, what do you see?”

“I see… judgment. I think I understand now. People are afraid of what is different; that’s why they don’t like it.”

“So, what are you waiting for?” the instructor questioned.

“Everything. We must remain patient in this world.”

“The time will come,” the woman smiled. Again, he picked up his brush. He stroked it up and down, equally painting half of the white canvas black.

“This is only the beginning,” the man grinned. The woman looked at her friend’s canvas. She laughed to herself as she began to paint the same thing on hers.

“Yes, it is,” she said.

Author’s Note: This short story is modeled after Ernest Hemingway’s “tip of the iceberg” approach to storytelling.