Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Dramatic Dialogue- re-edited



“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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