Muse

1

The difference between a good painting and a great painting is the way it makes you feel. Or so my mother told me. As an art extraordinaire, I'd assume she would know what she was talking about.

Looking at my own piece I quickly scrambled together – desperate to create one of my own 'great' paintings, – the colours were too dull, the brushstrokes perhaps too long, the flowers, the trees, looked uncanny in their surroundings. It was all wrong. Maybe I was being too harsh on myself, but at a second, longer glance my criticisms seemed justified.

Not as good as mothers pieces.

I sighed a deep breath as I started to put the brass lids back onto each little paint pot one by one, tightening them until my fingers stung. Why couldn't talent be genetic? Art is an amazing outlet for me, however once all the elements are put on the canvas and I take a step back to look at it in all its glory, the portrayal seems different from what I had thought it might show whilst the painting was in progress. The best thing about my artworks is the fact that I am able to sit in front of a beautiful scenery, in the fresh air, in the sunlight, for hours on end without a single soul questioning if I was mentally sound. Well at least not out loud.

The once warm sun of the midday had turned cooler, slowly disappearing behind the horizon. I got up from my usual spot underneath an unusually large oak tree that had been such a size since I was much younger. Always observing it in fascination whilst I walked my dog to her groomer, when I finally decided it was a perfectly peaceful spot to try to connect my brush and the paints to make something great. Although that connection might not be there just yet, it is one of the most beautiful things to have a peace of mind, even if it is just until the canvas is full.

The truth behind my obsession arose from my mothers joyous and fruitful career as a renowned painter, in the last years of her life, she was able to capture her whole personal essence in some paint on a canvas, thousands of pieces of intricately woven yarn. Her works were truly some of the best I've seen in my lifetime and have always made me smile, her radiant personality shining through in some extravagant landscapes and portraits. Although she was sick – her energy depleting as time went by – it was almost as if her soul was slowly defusing onto the canvas from her physical body. The only things I really have to remember who she was sit in my downtown apartment scattered along my abundance of houseplants, some paintings that she started but never finished, or ones she did not wish to sell. They were the perfect addition to my living space.

I walked with my large painting pad tucked soundly under my arm, my tote full of my oil paints, undoubtedly spilling everywhere despite my efforts to seal the lids as tightly as I could. The cool evening winds sung through the trees, throwing my long hair in my face from behind, I took in the scenery through my wildly swaying hair as I made my way back home.

•••

Hearing the click of the key telling me my door was now unlocked, I swung the heavy wood open and was immediately greeted by the comforting aura of my home. I dragged my tote that became increasingly heavier with each step to my couch, littered with unnecessary cushions of all shapes, colours and sizes, and decided to settle there as my place to relax for the moment. The deep brown coffee table held a book placed on top of it, 'The Secret Garden', a classic I was currently reading that helped to spark my creative thinking, almost putting me into a childlike state of mind. Well it is meant for children, is it not? A classic and well written novel nevertheless.

I grabbed the book and flipped it open to where the small handmade paper bookmark sat, intending to continue reading from where I left off. As I held the assortment of pages in my hands, I couldn't help but to think, my eyes blurring as I became lost in thought, thinking about the day that was set to come next. A big day for the gallery, many people would surely be visiting after we had closed for such a long time. Starting the day off with an auction of all things, right inside the gallery. I wondered what artworks would be chosen, and by whom, what would they do with them? People with an interest in art always seemed much more interesting to me than those who do not understand it. It takes a deep mind to truly absorb the emotion and message seen within the brushstrokes.

My eyelids felt drastically heavier the longer I thought about the day ahead. I was already exhausted and the night had barely just begun. As much as I love being in the gallery, as an assistant, or receptionist – if you will – the art seems so close but so far out of my reach. I get to sit and stare at a computer all day whilst the artworks stare at me, peeping over my desk almost as to tease me. Still, I enjoyed being in an environment with likeminded people, people who understand. That was the thing with these Sunday evenings, although I enjoy myself throughout the day, I'm always ending up worrying about the next day.

It didn't take me long to succumb to my inexplainable tiredness, not even bothered to move to my perfectly available, perfectly comfortable, bed. It was comforting falling asleep with a book on my chest, cushions surrounding me and the soft glow from my lamp being the only thing to light up my whole apartment.