The Painter walked through his gallery; it was found above his bedroom of the cottage, where a wooden staircase led to the attic. He had many cottages, each for a different purpose. This cottage was hidden deep within the forest, and was especially for his paintings and his time away to create.
The air smelled like turpentine, freshly oiled canvas and old wood. He lit a lamp. The Painter’s hands were weathered but strong. Each crevice and wound reflected his wisdom, experience and boldness: testament to a great life.
The Painter admired his collection of works which spanned decades of inventing. He paced along each piece and then stopped to hover over one: the portrait of a girl he’d known since she was a child. This was by far one of his favourites.
It was messy. The girl had become impatient to see the final picture and had rushed him. Some parts were clumpy, others too dark where age had ruined some of his paints. Certain aspects seemed to not blend in too well into their curves, and there were a few blotches of dampness here and there.
The Painter stood back.
It was still one of his most prized works.
You see, the painting lacked the predictability and norm of his other paintings. There, he was free to have a few mishaps.
The girl’s eyes possessed a character that he found difficult to capture in his other portraits. She exuded an aura about her. Nevermind the dark and scratchy parts. When one stepped back, they saw the colour of the girl’s cheeks, the silky-smooth contour of her lips, the way the light caught the freckles on her nose and the grace that flowed across the canvas like butterflies. Well, these truths overpowered any uneven and shoddy brush strokes.
There was more colour than darkness.
Yes, this was by far one of the Painter’s favourites.