I wrote this for the Fine Arts competition in 2015. In the district competition it received a superior rating and in the national competition it received a superior rating, as well as being in the Top Ten. One judge gave it a perfect score.
Carlson’s Painting
Bold paint strokes glide across the canvas as I brush the
finishing details on my painting. The mountains in the background stand tall, towering
over the landscape. The lush grassland below is scattered with shimmering
crystal lakes glowing as they are illuminated by the stars and moon. Two months
in the making, and it’s beautiful. I look at it admiringly for a minute; then I
stand and reach for the match box. The match hisses as the flame comes to life.
I press its head at the center of the canvas. The smoke grows as the painting
diminishes to ash. Soon the painting is no more, and I sweep up the remains off
the floor. Since I learned long ago that real beauty never lasts, I always burn
my perfectly finished art. That way no one else can destroy the beauty with
ugly criticism. The beauty is a light I keep covered as I only trust myself to
enjoy it.
Suddenly, my phone explodes with
sound; my head whips around. It’s a reminder saying I need to leave for the art
lessons I teach at the community center. I sigh, dreading the oncoming day
filled with pointless obligations. Grudgingly I get up. After all, that’s life.
Twenty minutes later I walk into the center which is a
neighborly place where people come to socialize, pick up new hobbies, and earn
volunteer hours. It typically makes me feel peaceful, but today traffic was
horrid and I’m feeling flustered and stressed. I walk to the art room with my
supplies only to find a complete disaster: chairs on their sides, tables
littered with snack food, and toilet paper hanging from the ceiling. Someone
must have snuck in last night.
I let out a soft dry, bitter laugh,
“Great,” I say sarcastically. I have to take a deep breath before I finally am
able to start cleaning the mess up.
Half-finished with cleaning up, I hear a knock.
“Ms. Sadie? I know I’m a bit early, but can I come
in,” a voice asks through the door. It’s Carlson. He is the best artist in my elementary
school class but not necessarily my best student. He’s a bit rebellious and
likes to show off with a childish arrogance that’s going to land him in major
trouble one day. Letting him in now will significantly slow down my process of
cleaning up, but without other options. I let him in.
When I open up the door, he smiles. There’s something
different about him; he’s genuinely excited about something.
“Hey,” I say, “Come on in.”
“Thanks for letting me,” he says as he walks in. He halts
and says, “Wow. Did you have a birthday party?!”
I can’t help but laugh, “No. Some big kids must have
snuck in again, and trashed the place. You can sit over there and wait for the
other kids to show up while I clean up.” I point to the couches in the corner
of the room usually reserved for the teacher.
I expect him to jump for the opportunity, but he takes
me by surprise and replies, “I can help!”
I raise my eyebrow slightly, “Help clean the room?”
He nods eagerly and I shrug, “Alright. Thank you
Carlson. That’s sweet of you.” “And abnormal,” I add in my head.
Together the cleaning goes more quickly, and I am
extremely grateful. I look over at him after I finish and notice he’s
energetically trying to scrub off some dried soda on the table. I smile,
“Someone must really want me to tell his mom he’s been especially good today.
Is there a new movie out today or something?”
He shakes his head, “I really wanted to finish so I
could show you my new drawing.”
“Really,” I ask grabbing a towel with disinfectant,
“Bring it over and show me. I’ll take care of this last spill.”
As if he were a missile he takes off honing in on
his backpack and brings over his sketch book, overflowing with colorful
drawings and pencil sketches. Turning to the last page he pulls out the best
drawing he’s ever done. It’s a three dimensional cross with a heart in the
middle. The top half is a pristine snow bright white. Half way down the cross
there is a glistening blood red seemingly dripping down. Everything below the
red is a pitch black. White, red, black sliding down on a cross and heart. “It’s
stunning,” I tell him, awed.
“You really like it,” he asks excitedly.
I nod, “I really do. It’s magnificent. These types of
art typically have a deeper meaning,” I pause then ask, “Does yours?”
Ready to share his head bobs up and down enthusiastically,
“Yes! We went to church for my cousin’s baptism last week, and I learned that
this guy named Jesus who died for sinners. Don’t worry; He’s okay though! He
came back to life! How awesome is that?! Anyway His blood covered our sins so
now we just have to ask for forgiveness and then boom! When we die, we go to
heaven!”
It takes me a second to gather my thoughts and then a
lame, “Whoa,” pushes past my lips.
Carlson nods understandingly, “I
know right.”
I smile and laugh a bit, “Do you
mind if I borrow this? I’ll give it back next week.”
“Sure,” he says. Then he runs over
to his best friend who just came in. I carefully place his picture with my
things and once all the students arrive I start class.
Imprinted in my head, Carlson’s
picture and story was running through my head throughout the day. He seemed
different, so much happier than normal. It was as if he had changed. I had
grown up in church all during my childhood; I had heard about people
miraculously being changed, being happier. Through the years though, it was like
I almost forgot. My life got busy once I started college, and I had never
really felt changed by going to church. It was just something I did. So I just
stopped. Stopped going, stopped caring. Looking at Carlson’s picture and
hearing his story reawakened something in me.
That very night I go home and search
my closest. My old Bible. I pick it up and blow off the dust. As I read old
familiar words and phrases bring new meaning. Realization comes crashing down
on me. Realization on how important this is, realization that I am loved,
realization that I can love back. On my
knees, I allow God to come in, expelling everything else. I’m crying, but I
don’t care because I don’t feel weak anymore. I feel strong.
The next morning I get up smiling as
the simple things bring immense pleasure once again. After all, simple things
like a child’s drawing can change everything. My pictures can too. I throw away
the matches. I don’t need them anymore. The paintings I make are temporary
beauty, but His art and His light are eternal. A light I can’t keep covered for
me alone to enjoy, but a light I need to show others. And it is so much better
this way.
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