An Artist's Remorse

A stroke of cerulean, maybe? Mmhm.. a masterpiece in itself. After all these years, still, you are ever so magnificent.

A sigh echoes the studio as a rumble of footsteps disturbs the wooden door across the foyer.

I should definitely reconsider moving out.

The excited knocks soon lose interest, retreating from the steps of the once exquisite home.

The habit of not taking a single notice of one’s surroundings started as an impossible feat for the crease-faced artist. Feeling a pang of guilt every time he forced his windows shut from the innocent concerns of his neighbors. If only he held on to that guilt. He would not have been labeled numb or uncouth, worse – dead.

Upon meeting the artist, one may conclude that he is incapable of love, of feeling, of recognizing the beauty in things. Outrightly improbable for an artist. For what does an artist base his works on if not the beauty that surrounds him? Yet, like in so many ways, he perceives things rather differently. The beauty that influences his myriad of pieces is solely created in his never-vacant mind. He does not need an external guide or inspiration, he says that Esther provides him a lifetime supply of ideas for his art. Every piece he finishes, she is there, right at the center. Otherwise, in the clouds, the flowers, the iridescent rainbow. Having been separated for decades due to marital misunderstandings, a voice of fear crossed his mind.

Dear Esther, I’m afraid that the talent that cruises my mind and hand will walk out the door as you do. So stay.

In his favor, his artistic skill stayed faithful to him despite his lover leaving. He wonders now if his studio grumbles at him as another piece is hung on its walls.

Not even ten minutes pass by, and the repetitive knocks return. The painter lifts his brush an inch from the dark blue canvas, turning his head toward the door. An immediate urge to answer the door washes over him, and he does.

A wrinkled woman smiles at him, bringing a flash of old memories he cherished deeply until now. The woman expected a long, loving kiss; a hug at the very least, only to be left disappointed. Both of them were. This was not the woman who modeled in every artwork he had made. The fountain of youth that used to overflow from her dried up. No longer the colorful influence that marked his canvases.

Before shutting the door, he wiped a tear from the rough cheek of his wife, branding this moment to be the last.

You are no longer the beauty that entrances me, Esther.

He counted his steps back to the studio. Slowly sat down on his stool. Picked up his palette and brush. Only to lose every ounce of his ability to paint the once beautiful Esther. Another pang of guilt ached his heart.

How I have become a fool.

This is the danger of becoming an artist. One regards people as boutonnieres, mere decorations. The moment it dies, off with it immediately.

He holds his hands out to the paintings on the wall. Repeating words of remorse to the muse on the canvases.

Forgive me, Esther. Forgive me, Esther. Forgive me, Esther.