Random Story
“Woman & Three Children”
Choice #2
It was not that long ago that I was alone. I did not know I was alone, but after the artist came, I realized that there was a word for my solitude: alone. I was not lonely; I was never lonely. Simply: alone. I shared my small closet with only a few spare easels and old paintbrushes. There may have been more like me at one point, but I couldn’t remember them. They did not matter to me, anyway. I was happy to see myself in the dim light provided by the small, high window. I was grateful that I could not see out the window; it was too high and small to see anything but the sky. But that was good for me. The outside world scared me. All I needed was myself.
My simplicity was beautiful. Uncomplicated and effortless, I knew everything about myself, and for that I was content. Narcissism was the closest thing I had to love, and I embraced it with luster. I seemed to be made of miles of white. I was perfectly smooth, and not a blemish marred my surface. No other canvas was as great as I, and I knew it better than anyone. But even then, the concept of there being anyone else had never come to me. I was enough for me.
The artist - I knew she was an artist because of the paint in her hair and the chalk under her nails - came to me one day. She gazed at my beauty and she was awed. She had nothing to say; she simply looked, and I watched him look. Her eyes seemed wondering and painless, and the way they lazily roamed my canvas gave rise to my growing sense of pride.
He left after a while. I wanted him to come back and continue to look. Her approval made me feel good about myself. More than content: wanted.
He came back the very next day - I could tell the day had changed because it had been dark and then light again - and she stared longer than before. I stood proud, daring him to think less of me than what I am. She came back the next day, and the day after that. For many lights and darks she sat in front of me and soaked in my gloriousness. And although her visits were repetitious, her eyes changed. She began to peer more greedily, her eyes moving more quickly. But she still came back, each day.
When she was gone, I began to miss her company. “Alone” turned into “lonely”, and my confidence in my beauty wavered each time she left the room. But she always came back, and that kept me from losing myself.
But then, she changed. Instead of just looking, she began muttering to himself in a way I could not understand. After so long in my own silence, her words were foreign and quick. Her hands traced lines and shapes on my unwrinkled body, and I felt violated. Her gaze was suddenly unforgiving, her eyes burning my fibers. I wanted him to go away, to leave me alone in my small window and cluttered space. I could be happy again without him; I knew I could. I did not need her approval. As if she felt my mental recoil, she sat back, away from me, and her eyes smiled. I watched this new way she eyed me, as if she owned me. She left then, and when a dark had passed, she came back. Again, this time was new. She wore an apron of sorts, smeared with paints and oils. She wore gloves over hands, which I did not understand until she reached out to pick me up. Inside, I was writhing. I did not want to move. I did not want to see a world that I knew had to be bigger than my closet, but I had no choice. I could not move like the artist. I could not move at all. But oh, how I tried. I squirmed and kicked and screamed, all the while frozen in my state of being. I came into a bright room, and at first I could see nothing but light. I realized the room must have more than just one small window, and because I had no eyes to adjust. It was days before I could see again. But I could feel. I could feel the tip of the pencil, marring my perfect whiteness. I cried out in my silent way each time it scratched me, searing me as I imagine the sun would sear human flesh.
I wanted to burn her flesh. Those weeks of pencils, I wanted to call the sun right into her very home. The pain was almost too much for me. I wondered how difficult it would be to crumble into small pieces, so that the artist would not want me anymore. She would throw me out onto the street, where children laying would run over me with their small feet, laughing all the while. Or maybe I did not think that. I did not know about children then. But nevertheless, small feet were nothing compared to the white-hot tip of the pencil. They would crush me, but they would not burn like the pencil tip burned. I was able to watch my own torture when I was finally able to see again. I could not make sense of the lines at all. Their meaning was lost on me.
Finally, after agonizing weeks, the pencil and the artist were gone. Alone for the evening and night, I could see others like me. Or, more correctly, others who used to be like me. Now they were no longer white, but different shades of colors, and they were on the walls. I had never been on the wall, but just leaning against it. I wondered what that meant. I wondered about the colors, and about what they meant. I found myself wondering far more than I ever had-wondered where the other canvases had come from, and then I wondered where I had come from. I could not remember that far back. In fact, I could barely remember what it had been like before the artist. I tried to remember what the room looked like when it was just I, but all I could remember was the artist and her fiery pencils.
Amidst my wondering, the artist returned. She had new things with him now, and I recognized some of the same colors I had seen on the walls. She took out brushes of many shapes and sizes, and soon the cool color was soothing my pained canvas. The colors felt wonderful and soon I was absorbed in them. I watched a background take form: trees and sky. They seemed to form on their own; the artist was barely there. The colors took over my world, and I soon forgot the pencils. Now I waited for the artist to return and smooth more colors over me. The waiting felt familiar, and I wondered about that. But then she would come back and continue her work, and I would stop wondering.
A farm appeared in the background, and then there were flowers all around. They waved in an invisible wind, and I dreamed of waving back. Then there were three little girls. I knew they were girls by the ribbons in their hair. They went unwatched and unsheltered, and I worried about them. They could hurt themselves or one another, or be blotched by a drop of paint. I worried most when the artist was gone. Who would watch them when she was not there? I could watch, but I could not care for them. I had no movement in me, and if something where to strike I would be of no help at all.
Then there was her. Her dark and graceful ways entrance me. She is complicated; to me she is three-dimensional. There is more to her than anyone can ever know, and she belongs to me, although she does not seem to know me. The way she watches over the girls, protective and loving, is more than anyone has ever done for me. I saw her birth, and it was beautiful. I saw her grow, and she was beautiful. I love her more than anything. Even now, the farthest back that I remember is her birth. I know there was more to me, long ago, but I only remember small, inconsequential things. There was a small window, and then there was cool paint. And then: her. Hanging here, on the wall of the museum, she is all I can remember.
For school, based on the painting called
Girls in a Field of Bluebonnets
Vera Griffin
Choice #2
It was not that long ago that I was alone. I did not know I was alone, but after the artist came, I realized that there was a word for my solitude: alone. I was not lonely; I was never lonely. Simply: alone. I shared my small closet with only a few spare easels and old paintbrushes. There may have been more like me at one point, but I couldn’t remember them. They did not matter to me, anyway. I was happy to see myself in the dim light provided by the small, high window. I was grateful that I could not see out the window; it was too high and small to see anything but the sky. But that was good for me. The outside world scared me. All I needed was myself.
My simplicity was beautiful. Uncomplicated and effortless, I knew everything about myself, and for that I was content. Narcissism was the closest thing I had to love, and I embraced it with luster. I seemed to be made of miles of white. I was perfectly smooth, and not a blemish marred my surface. No other canvas was as great as I, and I knew it better than anyone. But even then, the concept of there being anyone else had never come to me. I was enough for me.
The artist - I knew she was an artist because of the paint in her hair and the chalk under her nails - came to me one day. She gazed at my beauty and she was awed. She had nothing to say; she simply looked, and I watched him look. Her eyes seemed wondering and painless, and the way they lazily roamed my canvas gave rise to my growing sense of pride.
He left after a while. I wanted him to come back and continue to look. Her approval made me feel good about myself. More than content: wanted.
He came back the very next day - I could tell the day had changed because it had been dark and then light again - and she stared longer than before. I stood proud, daring him to think less of me than what I am. She came back the next day, and the day after that. For many lights and darks she sat in front of me and soaked in my gloriousness. And although her visits were repetitious, her eyes changed. She began to peer more greedily, her eyes moving more quickly. But she still came back, each day.
When she was gone, I began to miss her company. “Alone” turned into “lonely”, and my confidence in my beauty wavered each time she left the room. But she always came back, and that kept me from losing myself.
But then, she changed. Instead of just looking, she began muttering to himself in a way I could not understand. After so long in my own silence, her words were foreign and quick. Her hands traced lines and shapes on my unwrinkled body, and I felt violated. Her gaze was suddenly unforgiving, her eyes burning my fibers. I wanted him to go away, to leave me alone in my small window and cluttered space. I could be happy again without him; I knew I could. I did not need her approval. As if she felt my mental recoil, she sat back, away from me, and her eyes smiled. I watched this new way she eyed me, as if she owned me. She left then, and when a dark had passed, she came back. Again, this time was new. She wore an apron of sorts, smeared with paints and oils. She wore gloves over hands, which I did not understand until she reached out to pick me up. Inside, I was writhing. I did not want to move. I did not want to see a world that I knew had to be bigger than my closet, but I had no choice. I could not move like the artist. I could not move at all. But oh, how I tried. I squirmed and kicked and screamed, all the while frozen in my state of being. I came into a bright room, and at first I could see nothing but light. I realized the room must have more than just one small window, and because I had no eyes to adjust. It was days before I could see again. But I could feel. I could feel the tip of the pencil, marring my perfect whiteness. I cried out in my silent way each time it scratched me, searing me as I imagine the sun would sear human flesh.
I wanted to burn her flesh. Those weeks of pencils, I wanted to call the sun right into her very home. The pain was almost too much for me. I wondered how difficult it would be to crumble into small pieces, so that the artist would not want me anymore. She would throw me out onto the street, where children laying would run over me with their small feet, laughing all the while. Or maybe I did not think that. I did not know about children then. But nevertheless, small feet were nothing compared to the white-hot tip of the pencil. They would crush me, but they would not burn like the pencil tip burned. I was able to watch my own torture when I was finally able to see again. I could not make sense of the lines at all. Their meaning was lost on me.
Finally, after agonizing weeks, the pencil and the artist were gone. Alone for the evening and night, I could see others like me. Or, more correctly, others who used to be like me. Now they were no longer white, but different shades of colors, and they were on the walls. I had never been on the wall, but just leaning against it. I wondered what that meant. I wondered about the colors, and about what they meant. I found myself wondering far more than I ever had-wondered where the other canvases had come from, and then I wondered where I had come from. I could not remember that far back. In fact, I could barely remember what it had been like before the artist. I tried to remember what the room looked like when it was just I, but all I could remember was the artist and her fiery pencils.
Amidst my wondering, the artist returned. She had new things with him now, and I recognized some of the same colors I had seen on the walls. She took out brushes of many shapes and sizes, and soon the cool color was soothing my pained canvas. The colors felt wonderful and soon I was absorbed in them. I watched a background take form: trees and sky. They seemed to form on their own; the artist was barely there. The colors took over my world, and I soon forgot the pencils. Now I waited for the artist to return and smooth more colors over me. The waiting felt familiar, and I wondered about that. But then she would come back and continue her work, and I would stop wondering.
A farm appeared in the background, and then there were flowers all around. They waved in an invisible wind, and I dreamed of waving back. Then there were three little girls. I knew they were girls by the ribbons in their hair. They went unwatched and unsheltered, and I worried about them. They could hurt themselves or one another, or be blotched by a drop of paint. I worried most when the artist was gone. Who would watch them when she was not there? I could watch, but I could not care for them. I had no movement in me, and if something where to strike I would be of no help at all.
Then there was her. Her dark and graceful ways entrance me. She is complicated; to me she is three-dimensional. There is more to her than anyone can ever know, and she belongs to me, although she does not seem to know me. The way she watches over the girls, protective and loving, is more than anyone has ever done for me. I saw her birth, and it was beautiful. I saw her grow, and she was beautiful. I love her more than anything. Even now, the farthest back that I remember is her birth. I know there was more to me, long ago, but I only remember small, inconsequential things. There was a small window, and then there was cool paint. And then: her. Hanging here, on the wall of the museum, she is all I can remember.
For school, based on the painting called
Girls in a Field of Bluebonnets
Vera Griffin