For the audio version, click here
I sat next to the fountain and watched her paint. Her brush was moving easily on the canvas and her eyes moved smoothly between the subject and the painting. She looked like a natural, like every part of her body had been made for this moment. The way she sat, the way she mixed her colours, the way she moved her brushes, told me this woman was a really good artist. She looked like she could paint music.
I sat next to the fountain and watched her paint. Her brush was moving easily on the canvas and her eyes moved smoothly between the subject and the painting. She looked like a natural, like every part of her body had been made for this moment. The way she sat, the way she mixed her colours, the way she moved her brushes, told me this woman was a really good artist. She looked like she could paint music.
It was lunchtime. I’d bought a newspaper and a
Milky Way and I was planning to spend the last 20 minutes of my break enjoying
the sunshine, doing the crossword and eating chocolate. But instead of playing with words, I was watching an
artist at work on this bright and breezy, spring day. I was so interested in her actions that I forgot all
about my chocolate bar, leaving it unopened on the bench beside me.
I couldn’t see what she was painting but that didn’t
matter, in fact that was better. The real beauty was watching the woman paint,
not looking at the painting. I watched a small smile appear on her lips, and then disappear
quickly as if a happy thought had come into her head like a butterfly and then
danced away again. I watched her wipe away sweat from her brow with the back of
her hand, still holding the brush between finger and thumb. Her brush strokes
reminded me of an orchestra conductor; her brushes were like her baton, her paints
her orchestra.
My time was up, lunchtime over - I had to get back to
the office. I folded the newspaper, stood up from my bench and walked
off. It was only when I got back to my desk that I remembered the chocolate
bar. I put my hand in my pockets looking forward to the chocolate treat but it
was nowhere to be found. I remembered that I’d left it on the bench; a small present
to the god of painters.
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This is not a story, this is just poetry...
ReplyDeleteAnd the original is even better - http://garethsshortstoryblog.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/the-painter-and-milky-way.html
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