I'm Certain that can be Arranged
The stallion looked at the blank canvas with an expression just as blank. The walls of his studio were unadorned, favoring the plain off white color that he had chosen for them all those years ago. Every third month the room got a fresh coat of paint to cover up the myriad of flecks that wound up there when the artist entered his more passionate throes, throes that would send droplets of paint far and wide as his passion manifested itself across the canvas.
He had several dozen different cans of paint at his disposal, and yet nothing stoked his desire for more than the blankness facing him. Even his most minimalist works were treasured in the community, but he doubted that he had enough prestige to get away with a blank canvas. Still, looking at what others had presented forth at the last museum tour made the artist cringe. How ponies could look at what had been presented and call it art baffled him. Surely there was something that he was missing.
With a sigh that shattered the silence, the stallion laid down the paintbrush he had been holding, opting to take a step back from his canvas before attempting to work his magic once more. The wooden floor creaked nicely beneath his hooves, the ever so slight give in the wood reminding the artist just how much he paced, walked, and pounded on the floor in this room. He was a restless artist, always flitting from one style to another, never lingering any longer than his heart desired.
He didn’t cater to the whims of the public, instead delivering what he thought was quality, and leaving it up to the community to render its judgment as they would. It had paid off in dividends after he was discovered for his rendition of an apple orchard. The darker undertones were said to have detracted from the painting, but the artist didn’t give a damn about that. He both loved and hated the picture, and what it portrayed. He was a walking manifestation of the fact that an artist is never pleased with their work.
But, produce an artist must to survive, and so produce he did. Each work of art produced was given mere moments to dry and mature before it was sent off to be seen by the larger public, and it was on this basis that the stallion based his works. Each piece helped the next along. But some critics focused on single aspects of the works, focusing on a single small aspect, or mistake, forsaking the rest for the mistake. Almost literally missing the forest for the trees. A good work of art will have some mistakes, some small inconsistencies that just happen.
Other artists, some fairly well known, isolate themselves from the community, to an extent, and choose to work out several connected works of art before unveiling them all in a single grand swoop. This method works for some artists, but for our intrepid painter, this method is unsatisfying. The desire to hear from those who enjoy his work is too strong to resist.
A gentle creaking noise shatters our creator’s reverie causing him to turn towards the noise. The gentle sound of hooves on the wooden floor signals the entrance of the other pony living there. The creaks of the floor are so familiar that the artist can’t keep the small smile from his features.
“Still nothing, my love?” Her voice had the same titillating tone to it that the artist had fallen in love with all those months ago. “You really should get out some more. Inspiration has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it.” The artist gave a wan smile before he turned back to the blank canvas.
“Have you ever seen something more beautiful? Save for you, of course.” The mare offered up a small laugh at the artists stumble. She had already heard this question before, and she answered as she always had, knowing that the stallion loved to answer this question himself. “It represents possibility. There are, quite literally, infinite possibilities locked within this section of cloth and wood. All it takes is a single brush stroke to start the next masterpiece, a single alteration of the blank slate, and it’s closer to unlocking yet another piece of art. Nopony has an excuse for not creating something at least once in their life. Be it a painting, a tale of misery and woe, or a simple piece of artfully carved wood.”
“Art isn't something that can be forced, love.” The artist looked over his shoulder for just a moment, before he returned his gaze once more to the cans of paint sitting on the small table. A hoof gently brushed against a few labels, the flecks of dried pant peeling off at his touch.
“I know that, but it’s also not something that can be put on hold forever. When you find the drive to create, don’t stifle it. It can be something as small as a single phrase, or it can be something as grand as a revolution. No matter the source it comes from, inspiration shouldn’t be cast aside.” The artist grabbed one of the cans of paint, and with practiced ease, he popped off the lid, admiring the slight sheen of the paint still in the can. “And this.” The artist dipped a hoof into the paint, allowing it to drip from his hoof back into the can. “The material from which my art emerges. My mind acts as the driving force for the majesty of my work, but this. This is the medium through which I display my vision.”
The artist rubs the still wet hoof along his chest, creating a smear of paint through his coat. He looks back at the blank canvas, and his eyes light up once again, finding, at last, the inspiration he seeks. Minutes turn to hours, and hours into days. At long last, the stallion steps back from his work, the paint still wet in places, but the image staring back at him is unmistakable. The clear lines and defined shades make the work one of his best yet. Still, despite its clarity, something is missing.
Several soft voices sound from outside the room, and the artist can’t keep the smile from his face as he dashes over to the door, eager to show his latest work. The sounds of the creaking wood as his observers enter is muffled slightly, by the sound of his own hooves contacting the floor. His guests all looked at the piece of work with wonder written plainly on their faces. But none of them looked at him, only his work of art.
A voice different from the others pierced through the veil, shattering the illusion before the artists eyes. The painting stayed, but the six mares that were in the room mere moments ago all vanished, replaced only by the six canvases that rested against the wall, each one waiting for a painting that will never be painted. A deep sigh escapes the stallion, and he turns to face the source of the voice. The tall, pure white coated, mare stands in the doorway, a look of sadness in her eyes. “Come, my little pony. It’s been three months since they passed. You can’t just stay here and cry for them all the time. You need to go out and experience the world. It’s what they would’ve wanted.”
The stallion cast a last look at the picture he painted, a sense of peace passing over him. “Princess, I’d like this one to go on the monument. If you’d like, that is.”
“I’m certain that can be arranged, Blank Canvas. Now, let’s go out and enjoy the day.”
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This was written, like I said in the description, in just one hour long sitting. It started as something else entirely, but it wasn't long into this that I realized that there was quite a bit of potential in what I was just futzing about with. It was around the point when the mysterious guest entered that I realized that I could turn this into a story. And that's what I ended up doing. I left things intentionally vague so that it might be left up to the reader to decide who that mysterious mare was. It's clear that the main 6 are the ones who come in the second time, since I didn't feel like having it just be one of them. That way, I could still use the cover that I found for the cover, since that's also what Blank Slate painted.
I don't really know quite what to say about this, other than that I think this is one of my better pieces. It's not a long, drawn out piece like my chaptered works. Nor is it some silly little thing like some of my other one-shots. And, clearly, this isn't clop.
I'm just a bit interested to see what the reaction to this will be, if it gets one at all. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if this just passed through the cracks, only to be viewed by a few dozen before falling into the vast chasm of statistical oblivion, simply another story amongst thousands. Too many good stories pass by the greater audience as they focus their gazes towards the silly/outrageous/cloppy stories that seem to have an odd attraction towards the feature box. If this makes it, maybe I'll make something of an impact. Maybe I can change the way things are seen on this site. I doubt it, but it's a nice thought to think.
For those who read this far, and plan on commenting, you have my thanks. For the rest of you, please, carry on, and don't let me bother you.
myfacewhen.net/uploads/1874-big-grin-at-a-desk-drinking-coffee.png
My immediate reaction. No idea why.
Beautimas.
1545672First off, I'm pretty sure this will get enough attention to be featured. Second, I doubt that you will change anything. Like you said, the good stories are being passed up for mediocre to good clop or one-shots (some non-clop or non one-shots, but for some reasons they're the kind that make you think Nighty just threw darts at a board with names on it).
That ending. The entire time I was just nodding in agreement with what they were saying. Well done.
Beautiful.
Here, have five chickens.
That was the most hauntingly beautiful example of 'meta' I've ever come across... Bravo.
To the feature box!
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This. This is why I follow you. It took you but a single hour to write this and it carries so much meaning, I salute you good sir and i agree when you say that the imperfections are what make a story perfect.
Allons-y
Very nice. Is the artist in a relationship with the Princess, though?
I press! static.fimfiction.net/images/icons/thumb_up.png
That was a rather good story, actually. Short, but full of quality and meaning. Not sure if it's going to be featured. Wouldn't be impossible but oftentimes it seems to go to the stories that get the most attention and not the stories that deserve it.
And now to finish reading your other works, as soon as college gives me time
I like it. I'm not typically a fan of shorter works, but sometimes a good one-off can do nicely.
Dat end.
1549613 I don't need your deals.
MY CAR IS MADE OF FUCKING GOLD!
EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PIECE OF MY CAR'S MADE OF GOLD!
(get the reference and you win)
*finds story*
Oh. 
Fuck. Now I have no choice but to upvote.
Looks interesting, will read lat-
*notes author*
And I'm not even going to read it.
1550665 N... Not going to read it?
1550697
Haha, no. I kid. Of course I'm going to read it. You wrote it.
But I was serious about the upvote.
I upvoted it so hard I broke the interwebs.
No, wait, that might have been Sandy.
It's always a fine line the artist walks with his art. Personally, I'm much more in the "share myself through my art, and the reception is really quite inconsequential" camp. I've always said I only have two goals in writing:
1) Get what's in my head out
2) Make it the best possible work of fiction that I'm capable of writing, accepting nothing less
Granted, a good reception, even from just one reader, is worth so much. It fuels you, makes the struggle worthwhile. Would you still do it if no one liked it? Perhaps, but you long to create when you know there's a chance someone will love it.
1548951
Hahahaha! i see what you did there
As I have stated before, you are the best dude! I loved the story, it was opaque and left much to the mind. Hence greatness.
1545672
Spoken by a True artist, a true literary artist with a Pure passion for his writing that shines Throughout, a Artist who despite what the public Says and does, Writes. Writes For himself, writes because it makes Him happy. He's the Kind of artist that leaves one left in awe at the utter Passion he holds in his hands, in his mind and in his heart. An artist not Driven by the Public, (though that is Probably a Factor in the Matter) but Driven by his Own Rite to Love what he does. Someone who wields Not a Sword nor a Shield but Still Fights like a Warrior, a Warrior with Courage and Bravery and Soul. a Soul in which he Pores into his Art Making it Shine Like a Beacon in dark times. Though some may look down upon his Work he Cares not for his Passion, His Soul lives in his Art and that All in all is the most important thing.
Falkaga
I haven't dabbled in the creation of art too much, only having drawn a few things and not being that great; writing a fiction that probably won't be known; and composing some not-so-great pieces of music, but I do these things because it's a spur of the moment decision, a chance to express something that I can't say, or don't want to. I also see it as a chance to take the helm of creation, it feels great being able to turn a blank page into something that can express so much through any medium. Unfortunately, not everyone can see art in this form, and so they scrutinise it if it is not what they want.
Chances are, though, this won't make it to the feature box, mainly because of the algorithms that they use to determine it. Either way, this was uplifting, inspiring. Thank you Jet.
The imagery beautiful and the ending sad but meaningful--you certainly do have a way with words, Jet.
I have no experience with those who have Alzheimer's (that's what I thought Blank Canvas is) so I don't really get the ending.
I DO understand the piece-by-piece art method, as painting is one of my many hobbies, and that is my preferred style as well.
All in all, an interesting take on the way people view art (or your story) from an artist's perspective. Well written.
1553635
Why Hello Me!
How is me doing?
I may not be a painter, but I still enjoyed this very much, as the a lot of the same struggles can be found when writing music. I really enjoyed the ending as well. Definite upvote!