The commission
"Okay," she said. "Paint me a picture."
She was an elderly mare, soft smile gracing her lips, hooves propping her up in a hunch in her rocking chair as it swayed comfortingly. A short, neatly kept white mane was perched atop a tan face that told a story of a million smiles, permanently etched into her features as deep wrinkles. Her ears swiveled and flicked busily, eyes closed seemingly in simple contentment.
"What do you want me to paint?" I asked. I had a blank canvas set up on my easel, palette in hoof, brush in mouth, ready to begin. The smell of the paints had my mind buzzing with old memories and my heart quickening in anticipation. My question hung heavily in the air like thick woodsmoke as her rocking chair creaked, a metronome counting the seconds.
"Paint what you see," came her eventual answer.
My immediate thought was that I saw her there, in her rocking chair, and that if she wanted a portrait, I could do that.
Something about the way she said it, however, made me think that that wasn't what she meant. Did she mean "see" as in see regularly? I saw the castle often, its glorious towers reaching to the sky. I saw my two-story home tightly packed between two others and my husband smiling at me after returning home from work. I saw the friendly ponies selling tasty food from their stands by the park on my way to work.
Or did she mean what I saw beyond the mare perched comfortably on her old rocking chair in front of her window? I saw years of wisdom in her gentle smile that seemingly betrayed some kind of deeper knowledge I didn't have. I saw struggles and victories, a mare who overcame the odds to find her own success. I saw kindness and a lifetime of happiness among moments of pain. I could have tried something abstract that represented those things.
In the end, however, I decided to simply paint her portrait. Even if that wasn't what she meant, the moment was one I felt a deep desire to capture. And so I began.
As I mixed a dark brown on my palette to start on the background, she spoke to me. "So, what's your name, dearie?" she asked.
"Fine Line," I replied. Though it had been a while since I had practiced, I had long since mastered the art of talking with a brush in my mouth without ruining the painting. "You?"
"New Light," she said, "but my friends just call me Light."
I smiled. "And would you consider me a friend?"
"Well, I let you into my home to paint for me, so yes. I would say I do," she said.
"It's a nice home," I said. And I meant it. It wasn't a grand mansion, or even a two-story place like my own. It was small. Cozy. It seemed to fit her. A warm and humble dwelling for a kind mare with few needs.
"Thank you, dear," she said.
As I painted, I noticed her walls were bare, decorated with nothing but utilitarian shelves. I wondered where my painting was going to end up, but decided it wasn't really my business to ask.
"So, how long have you been working at that bank?" she asked. The question felt like it had a deeper purpose than simple conversation.
"Going on three years now," I replied after a couple brushstrokes.
"Do you like it there?" Her face remained unchanged, unreadable to me.
"It pays the bills," I said.
"But you'd rather be painting," she stated. I knew what she was getting at, and the initial inklings of annoyance began to bubble up in my mind.
"Yeah, but there isn't much money to be made doing that here in Canterlot. Not without connections, anyway. Or just blind luck that the right pony notices me. I can't afford to take that risk," I said, having to pause my work to say it.
"And what if you got regular customers like me? Paying about as much as I did?" she asked.
Why did that cursed smile not go away? While at first it seemed friendly, now it struck me as smug. And why was she keeping her eyes closed, as if she didn't have a care in the world? Did she hire me just to mock me? To wave a tasty carrot in front of my face just to point out I couldn't have it? I sighed internally. I decided to try to get to the point.
"Well, that would be great, but sometimes you just have to settle. Why are you asking me all this?" I asked, trying to remain patient.
"It's what I do," she said, not really answering my question in a way I found satisfactory. So much for getting to the point.
I simply resumed painting in silence, not wanting to continue that depressing line of thought. I mixed a soft tan to match her coat and began a rough outline of her, a blurry blob among a muddy backdrop. Focusing on my work was already lifting my spirits, helping me to forget about the oppressive responsibilities of my job and my lack of time to paint.
After several minutes, I spoke. "So what made you choose me, of all ponies? All you saw was my cutie mark at the bank, and just decided to commission me on a whim, without even meeting me first? There are artists with good reputations here in Canterlot for the same price or cheaper," I said. I wanted to solve this mystery. As nice as she seemed, I was becoming more skeptical of her motives. Her actions seemed to make less sense the more I thought about them. I hadn't even seen her before coming into her home. She had left a bag of bits and a note with the bank's security guard to give to me. The note gave me the option to return the money or paint for her. It was strange, but I could sense no malicious potential beyond wasting my time.
"You seemed like you could use it," she said, again not really giving me the answer I wanted. She wasn't wrong, though. Despite her mildly annoying line of questions about my current job, I was still feeling more relaxed than I ever had since moving to Canterlot. I had given up painting even in what little spare time I had, as it felt unfulfilling when I couldn't do it more often. It felt more like a tease than an outlet. This, however, painting for somepony who wanted it, was stirring up feelings I hadn't felt in years. A deep satisfaction that was scratching an itch I had forgotten even existed.
As I finished the sketch and began to refine indistinct shapes to more recognizable and detailed forms, she spoke again.
"So if you don't have time to paint, why do you still have your supplies?" she asked.
"Well, the set of brushes I use were made by my parents. My father made the handles, and the brushes are made of my mother's own hair. They made them as a gift for my cuteceañera after I got my cutie mark. The easel and palette, I made myself with my father's help. The paint and canvas, I bought at a store before coming here. So I didn't have all of these supplies," I explained. She nodded as if she had somehow expected that answer.
"It's clearly your passion. I want to help you pursue it, Fine Line," she said.
I had to stop myself from letting out a laugh, as my first reaction was disbelief. But the way she said it, adding my name at the end like that, sounded like she was being serious. And there was no undertone of teasing or other malice that I could detect. My heart sped up as I considered the possibility that she could do what she was implying. Could this be my chance to do what I loved and still earn a living wage?
"Is that something you can do?" I asked with cautious optimism.
She nodded. "I can. I have plenty of the right connections. You don't do what I do without making them," she said.
"And just what is it that you do? I figured you'd be retired," I said, placing several thin dark lines with a few accurate strokes.
"Oh, I am. But when you're doing what you love, you never really want to quit. As for what I do, I think I'll let that be a surprise. More fun that way," she said with a short, soft laugh.
"I... see. And what's in it for you? No offense, but this all just sounds too good to be true," I said.
"Of course, dear, I understand. What I get is the satisfaction of helping a pony like you. That's all I need," she said.
I returned to working in silence as I contemplated what she told me. I refined the window, the rocking chair, the floorboards, the elderly mare herself. They began to come to life, to look more like the scene in front of me as I shaded and added details to the canvas. I painted faster as I lost myself in my work. Stroke, rinse, wipe, change brush, mix, repeat. I had a fast rhythm, a path to a goal laid bare before me, and I was galloping along it. And before I knew it, I was there. My work was done. I stepped back from it, surprised at my own fervor, breaths coming heavily and excitedly as I looked at the finished work. It felt surreal, like an experience I had dreamed, but was still definitely rooted in reality.
I looked at her, her offer burning a hole in my mind.
"Yes," I said automatically, surprising myself. "I need this. I didn't know how much I missed this. I came here to Canterlot to live with my husband, and I love him to bits. Enough that I gave this up to be with him. And it's been wonderful, but if I can do this too... I want to. Please." My eyes grew misty and my throat tightened.
Her eyes were still closed. Her smile had changed. It was wider, and she looked like she was basking in a warm bath after a hard day working in the mud.
"Ah... there it is. That's the feeling I've been missing so much," she said.
I swallowed my emotions and took a calming breath. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Look at your cutie mark, dear," she said simply.
I blinked as I processed her request. What could my cutie mark have to do with-
"Oh!" I exclaimed as I turned to look. My mark, a curvy red line that ended at the tip of a paint brush, was glowing as if from an inner light. It reminded me of when I first got it while painting in school. "W-what's happening? It's glowing."
"That tends to happen when one rediscovers their special talent," she said, still rocking back and forth.
I felt a surge of pride and purpose. I carefully turned my easel and canvas around to face her, the smile on my face as bright as my cutie mark.
"What do you think?" I asked, excited.
"About what, dear?" she asked. Her eyes were still closed.
"My painting. I turned it toward you if you wanna open your eyes and see it," I said.
She laughed. "Oh, I don't think opening my eyes would help, dear," she said with the same warm smile she had kept the entire time.
"Why not?" I asked before thinking. I knew why not as soon as I said the words.
"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" she asked in a friendly manner. She did not seem offended, merely amused.
"N-no, I suppose not," I said with an embarrassed blush. Then something occurred to me. "Wait, then how did you know about my cutie mark? And at the bank... We never even met!"
"Cutie marks have their own magic. I could feel it shining a moment ago. As for the bank, well, I heard you talking to a customer and I could hear your general dissatisfaction in your voice. Then I just asked somepony else to tell me what your cutie mark was," she explained.
I nodded, forgetting how useless the gesture was. "So are you some kind of... cutie mark therapist?" I asked curiously.
"Something like that," she said with a friendly laugh. "Well, used to be. You're the first I've helped in a while now. I guess in that sense, we needed each other."
"I... really can't tell you how grateful I am," I said.
"Oh, trust me, I've heard that many times, and you already have."
After a short comfortable silence, I had another nagging curiosity. "So, what are you going to do with the painting?" I asked.
"Well, I think I'll show it to some friends of mine who are interested and looking for new up-and-coming artists. Then I'll probably hang it up," she said, waving a hoof at the bare wall.
After that, I stayed and chatted with her for a while before I eventually had to go home. True to her word, I was soon getting offers to paint for ponies. Two weeks after seeing her, I quit my job at the bank and was already painting full time and loving it. After two months, I was working for a gallery that sold my work for much more than I would have, and gave me a cut that was still more than I would have gotten on my own. All in all, I was making about as much as I was at the bank, but enjoying it so much more. My husband noticed that my mood had improved at home too, and was grateful to see me so happy all the time.
That mare really changed my life.
It's been two years since I met her. I became a friend to her and visited her sometimes, checking in on her and keeping her updated on my life that she had changed for the better.
Today, I had a visitor. She was a middle-aged mare whose face had vaguely familiar features. She had a canvas with her, but I couldn't see the front of it. She told me she was New Light's daughter, and at first, I smiled. She did not smile back. When she turned the canvas around and I saw the familiar painting of the old mare in her rocking chair, I felt an icy dread spread through me as my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. I knew what she was going to say, but I hoped she wouldn't.
"I'm sorry, Fine Line. But my mother passed away last night in her sleep," she said. My heart felt like it was being torn from my chest as she said it. I sat down, falling onto my haunches as I absorbed the information. "She... told me about you. About this painting. It was the only decorative thing she had in her house. She also wanted me to bring it back to you after... well, you know." She turned her head away from me to try to keep her composure.
"No," I said simply. I didn't even know what I meant at first. Whether I was denying what happened or turning down the offer to take my painting back. After a few seconds, I realized it was the latter. "No, I can't take it back. I want it to be hers." I wasn't even sure what I meant, but I felt like I meant it. I just knew I couldn't keep it for myself.
The mare considered for a second and nodded in understanding. "I can find somewhere to hang it in her memory."
I just nodded dumbly. She gave me details of when the funeral would be and, with not much else to say, she was off. I watched her go, carrying what felt like the most important painting I ever made. Then I came up to my room and cried into my pillow.
And here I am now, writing this. The paper is getting ruined by tears, but I am trying to look past the sadness of her loss and instead focus on the good she did, not just for me, but for many ponies. So instead of mourning her death, I want to celebrate her life. Remember her achievements and how she changed lives for the better.
I think once I calm down, I will go get my supplies and paint what I see.