Wayfarer

by The Plebeian


VI

Over a once-white canvas, the scene is painted in the oils of her craft, more muted hues befitting the muted night, if not a bit dimmer. The light does not strike her as well. It seems to her like it should wash away the colors that lie beneath, that it destroys the integrity of the color. A strange ritual, she adds only enough color to discern the hue, not bothering with tricks of vibrance or gloss. Perhaps that is how she sees: through squinted eyes, dimming the light just so it becomes comfortable to see. It should indeed be comfortable, though lively joy is not often related to comfort, at least not absolutely. The light serves too often to blind, better known to outshine than to illuminate.

The night sky is painted in a gloomy black, with only small inferences of blue near the edges of the canvas. The stars take their place in darkness’ realm, visible, but are unable to diffuse the light into their surroundings. Below, a set of yellow gates place bars over the foreground, complete with locks, chains, and the grey unicorn busts on either side. Holding the gates are short pillars of polished marble bricks, made up of a pale listless white, minute lines tracing around to mark the mortar. Small bits of yellow break up the colorless tints, though for the most part, the gate is left pure and blank, and just stretches across the canvas from left to right.

Behind, shadowy figures are given uncharacteristically-sharp detail, starting with a short tower on the far right, which carries the insignia of the sun, carefully molded just above the roof. A suspended pathway extends to another tower, more humble in form, and adorned with but a few windows and unlit sconces. Further along, a bolder tower rises up, covered in yellow sylvan designs, curling about in a curious and sporadic manner, tricking the eye with the softest illusion of illumination. The building stretches the tallest of them all, with a pointed spire reaching well into the sky, also a dim yellow. The tower farther to the left of it is only a small bit diminished in size and splendor, with a small balcony at the top. In one of its windows lies a faint yellowish glow, along with a horned, winged silhouette within. Only one more tower remains, like an afterthought. It is short and stubby, with a domed roof, and no finery whatsoever.

It is quite colorless, the scene. Perhaps there is very little color left. Perhaps in this painting, she thought she would use her last, and all she has are rare dim colors, after painting a few bright, foolish scenes. Now, she is left with the dull, the lusterless. All of her shine she thinks to be spent, and all of her color is at its last stretches of use. The painting is unlit, faded.

Still, just balancing on the tip of the tallest spire is the moon, craters and all, threatening to fall, a pale white trying to breach the drab confines of the canvas. It is ready to burst out, if only it had that extra bit of color, that small push to let it escape. However, escape would mean falling off of its perch, and that is unthinkable. So, it stays in the balance, comfortable, waiting. Without a lifelike tempo, it will never ascend above or fall below the point. It merely stays frozen forever, permanently stuck on a constricting canvas, doomed to sit rolled up in a bag, only occasionally to be reviewed, yet deemed too colorless for exhibition. It is worthless, forever trapped in its dull colors, and the artist knows it far before she begins her first stroke. No amount of coincidental positioning or careful inferences can change the fact that her piece lacks definition. Alone, it is likely to be cast out of the bag the first moment it begins to feel heavy, perhaps sold for a night’s repast.

So, why does she paint it? Why does she not fetch a new set of colors first, rather than expending all she has before considering a new batch? It is because she is curious. What if the paint does fit? What if the darkness says more without definition than the light does in relief? Why should everything have to be painted, when so much can be seen in the mind if detail is not offered? All beings’ daydreams are projected on a blank wall or blue sky, not in an epic or a masterpiece. The masterworks of the mind happen on blank canvasses. The only difficulty is that not a single soul would call a blank canvas art.

Still, some piece of a painting must always be left vague or blank, for no painting is complete without its viewer embedded. True art is inclusive, and from the craters of the precarious moon to the window’s faint silhouette, the canvas is a mere screen for patron projections and self-reflection. True art is not the artist talking at the viewer, but talking with. Beauty is found in the eye of the beholder, so should not the beholder be able to add his own sense of beauty?

So forever the painting is held in limbo, the artist’s message unclear, waiting for a generation that is willing to deem the vagueness as valuable, and the dim corners as delightful. Forever the moon rests on the tip of a needle, waiting for a breeze, a breath, a moth to set it in motion, careening down and bursting off of the canvas. It is until the pale white light grows as dim as its outlines that the artist remains a hopeless prisoner. Only when the stars twinkled out, is there art. The yellows may turn to gold and the stones and gates may be painted in full spectrum; the towers could be drawn in full shining splendor and the silhouette within defined, but until the canvas is painted black, she is alone.