In Vain

2 | A New Light

● April 4, 2016 | 10:42 AM ●

"Hm...I wonder what I should paint..."

He readies his canvas, placing it on its stand. He holds a brush with his right hand and his palette in the other. Taking a seat on a wooden stool, he straightens his spine. He fixes his gaze upon the purity of the white canvas in front of him, its texture inviting and awaiting his first stroke. Steadily, he dips and swishes his brush into a cup half-filled with water placed at his right to soften its thick, firm bristles.

"...Maybe I could recreate the Northern lights?"

Our character glances to his left, observes the nature at a distance beyond his porch. The wide opening and the lack of a wall on that side offers a breath-taking view of the birch trees. As some of their fallen leaves gracefully fly inside the room, one has landed next to his feet. This wide opening allows the rich yellow contours to spiral inside his den.

Despite this immense inspiration, he shakes his head out of disagreement with himself, but with a smile.

"This may not be the right hour to paint that."

He swishes his brush in the water a second time.

"Well? How about the leaning tower of Giza? 

He taps the cup three times with his brush to dip out the excess water.

*sighs* "...But it's too mainstream. Perhaps, the Horse Fair?  Or Inchiostro Su Venezia?"

He stops moving his brush and stares blankly at the clean canvas. His smile turning into a frown.

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Then after a series of thoughts, he looks down on the leaf beneath him next to his left foot. His eyes dull and shoulders slack. 

Placing his brush and palette on top of the table, he stood up and slowly paced from his rest to his kitchen to heat up some water. His footsteps, though wearing plush slippers, are echoing against the polished porcelain floor tiles. With each step, he could feel the weight of his past achievements, the accolades that once adorned his career as an artist. The vibrant memory of his triumphant moment, which was winning the prestigious Wolfgang Hahn Prize at the tender age of nine, danced through his mind.

His name is Galen Phelps, who had been hailed as a prodigy, a master of the brushes, and a palette genius—a talent that promised a future in the field of creative and traditional arts.

But the Galen we see now was a mere shadow of that former self. His once vibrant imagination had been monotonous, and the spring of inspiration that had once flowed effortlessly seemed to have dried up. His soul felt empty.

A blank canvas.

Galen went back to his deck from the kitchen, gazing out at the majestic birch trees that adorned his yard. But truthfully, birch trees can be seen from every side as he lives separate from the city—he resides within a forest. The morning sunlight casted long shadows on the grass. Mushrooms such as blue chanterelles and various tulips add colour to the scene. The beauty of nature surrounded him, but it failed to ignite the spark within his heart.