“What do you
mean ‘this doesn’t work’?
This painting
is fine the way it is,”
Said the young artist,
arms crossed and perplexed
To her
professor domineering and stern.
“Fine? No,
darling. I think not.”
He scanned the
canvas, colored and brushed
With eyes that
scoffed each little stroke.
“This painting’s
a mess.
So childish, immature.
No, darling.
This simply won’t do.”
He spat as he
marked
Her final score
with an ‘F’,
Boring holes in
her artwork and into her worth.
“I disagree. With
all due respect,
I have to tell
you you’re wrong.
Spending
countless hours and many nights
Getting the
contrast, the shades,
The strokes, the
tone
The way I see
fit.
This painting’s
full of effort
No matter what
you say.”
She stood next
to her work,
Eyes afire, mouth
drawn to a line.
He tsk-tsk’ed
and shook his defined face.
Standing over
her as a statue in a park.
He patted her
back and told her this:
“I’m not telling
you that it’s so bad.
I’m simply
stating the facts. It’s not good.
I’ve seen
scores and scores of awesome works
And you’ll get
there one of these days. I hope.
But right now,
you paint like a child
Not so great.
Understand?”
His smile full
of pity, his eyes like a victor’s,
He tried to
make her see his way
Since his way is
the best way.
Still she
disagreed. She knew she was right.
Arms by her
side, she looked him in his eyes.
“My work is not
childish. It’s so mature.
This represents
heartbreak and that shows hope.
These strokes
show emotional turmoil and rest.
Those colors bring
out the depth of this feeling.
Don’t tell me
this painting is immature.
It may not be
the way you’d paint it, but still,
It’s the way I paint
and I like it a lot.”
She spun a
paintbrush in her stained grasp.
Delicate at
first, but now tense.
Her once ‘messy’
bun was now truly messy
As time drew
long and hard
During the
night since she
Touched up what
need to be fixed swiftly.
The painting,
she gazed as a mother would her baby
And the
paintbrush she grasped to hold her tongue.
“Be
professional but don’t back down,”
She told
herself.
He tapped his
foot. Impatient was he
With this whole
situation. Why must
She be so difficult
to deal with?
The others aren’t
like this. He
Guessed it was
because the others
Were more
mature like their art.
“Listen, ma’am.
I understand.
I used to be an
amateur, too.
But soon, I developed
a more
Grown-up style.
Please grasp the fact
This painting
needs improvement.
You’re in
college. Please act like an adult.”
Her knuckles
turned white
As she squeezed
the brush.
She feigned a
smile and
With a firm grasp
shook his manicured hand.
Letting go, she
removed her work
From the easel with
pain.
He smiled like
a cat
That ate the
canary, and
He watched as
she left the classroom.
Before she was
gone entirely
She turned
around told him this:
“We might paint
differently.
We might see
the theme in a different light.
But this
painting is not worthless.
It’s just as
good as the others.
Mark my words.”
With that, she
left and closed the door.
He knew he won
that whole dispute.
He saw yellow.
She saw green.
They did not
see all eye to eye.
Artists they
were nonetheless
But her
painting they just could not agree.
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