Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XXI

Strokes on canvas, the scene is depicted.

It begins with the Earth. Broad strokes span from side to side, marking the floor of the plains. Golden stalks shoot out of the ground in multitude, and are depicted swaying. Behind, the city of Fillydelphia is represented by a set of black blurs, which span all the way from side to side of the canvas. Above, a blue sky is given small blurs of grey, though it does not at all match the city’s mass of smog. It is too light, though it has little effect. If anything, to represent the haze in full would confuse the piece.

In front of the buildings is depicted the tree, which stretches just to the edges of the canvas. It has a strange and sharp detail, made with the smallest streaks of the dark and light browns of bark. It is sturdy enough, and the trunk’s bends give it the sense of leaning over, as if to hold a child. Its thin branches are covered in bright leaves, painstakingly detailed and sharpened. It is quite stunning, the way they cast their thin green shafts from the sun, hidden behind. It is a level of detail she has never yet committed to. On the ground before the tree rests a white blanket, with the two bags on it.

Of course, she has not neglected him. He takes priority, with more detail even than the sharp leaves of the tree. He sits, rather relaxed on the blanket, the hairs of his tail painted as exact to reality as the thinnest brush allows. His hooves rest firmly on the ground, his front hooves locked, sitting him up. As always, the blue of his coat requires her most vibrant sky blue, which stands starkly against the rough browns of the tree bark. His wings are folded at his sides, and he holds himself rather proudly. His head faces the viewer, his broad smile easily completed with a few strokes. Strange, how simple it is. It almost seems like such a characteristic smile should be harder, but it is so simple.

His eyes, however, are not nearly as easy. The color alone is already difficult. A strange whim-based blend of blue and green is used in strokes originating from the centers of the great orbs, with dark centers. She catches the energy quite well and, combined with his smile, the stallion is captured in a state of eternal excitement. Short brows flow down just over the eyes, and his black mane cascades down over his shoulder in short, thin strokes. Over all, the depiction is quite lifelike, and very satisfying.

She wonders how long he has held the excitement. It is so strong, overpowering, even. The bright colors very easily outshine the browns behind, and she wonders if he appreciates his own vibrance. She weighs it in her mind, and decides she will not ask, but find out herself. He seems not to acknowledge it. It does not surprise her that he might take it for granted. After all, it has been his since birth. Why should it seem remarkable? It may not, and indeed there are many others with bolder colors. Regardless, it is bright to her. It is not the coat, anyway, that finishes his figure. It is the eyes, she knows.

The eyes first drew her in. They are vivid like a child’s, but they hold so much within them that their energy is where the comparison ends. He has seen much, and felt far more, especially now. She still loses herself in them. She has spent a long time trying to perfect their image in her mind, but the twin pools manifest differently every time she takes another look. Like the wayfarer’s revisitings, she finds a new facet for every new glance. She hopes they never dim. They are something she may rediscover. What does she see now? It is another new facet; he has met a certain calm now. Despite his lively features, something about this place has put him at ease, given him serenity. It is the first time she has seen him so calm on the ground. She will ask him about it, she resolves.

She believes it could be the tree. Its slow, steady tempo certainly puts her at ease. Can he hear the whispers?

In faith, he cannot hear them now. They touch the fibers of his ears, but he cannot catch them, yet. The voice is too quiet for him. He has not yet adjusted to the quiet. His heart still beats for adventure and activity, and he cannot yet hear what is soft or subtle. The words echo in her head still, and confuse her. She works them tirelessly, and in her mind the sharp edges of the leaves begin to blur, as if a shadow of the tree still remains where it was only a moment ago. Then, the tree is still. The edges of the leaves are soft, and the tree is frozen, a testament to its still permanence.

The brighter colors of depiction suit her. Her new light is well-displayed in the shine of the leaves and his vibrant coat. It comes as naturally as the shadows before, and she is happy to produce something so detailed and clear. Though her mind is clouded and conflicted, her painting remains unscathed. She wonders if that worries her. Is she too detached from her art? It is possible. Still, it seems better this way, more resemblant of what she began with. As the mind works, it blurs its images, and the ideas behind them. She will keep her painting true.

Still, what if more is found in a painting true to mind than one true to life? That is something she must ponder much more. A few flecks more are added to his eyes, the facets she cannot yet see. There will always be more to discover. One day, she will know him and paint him in full.