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A quote: “Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.” ― C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
I’ll start with a story …
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Hearing her parents fight, she’d retreat to the tiny space at the back of the closet, the place she has secreted a sketch book and various stubs of pencil – graphic, charcoal – she cribbed from dad’s studio.
Over the years the same retreat and her book filled with ever more glorious landscapes. Rolling hills, soaring mountains, small towns hinted at in the misty valleys.
Watercolors brought sunlit meadows and soft twilights with ephemeral spheres of rainbow hue. Her hopes poured into each render. If only …
One particularly nasty row brought the police and CPS to remove her.
She was gone.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image Adobe Stock, standard license.
Jane Meyerhofer says: She wanted the icon.
“Can’t you photocopy it for me if you won’t let me take a picture?”
The keeper of the image was clear. “This image may not be photographed and will not be sold.” A moment passed. “Are you an artist?”
She said, “I used to be. Does that matter?”
“We want an artist to illustrate the finding of this icon for a children’s book. It was lost but a miracle brought it back. We will pay you.”
She thought, “At any rate I can look at it every day.” She studied the icon intensively and used fragments from it for line drawings to illustrate pages in the book. The tremor which had ended her artistic career allowed her a few minutes each day to work. She made the most of the minutes for each page. On the last page the keeper wanted a picture of the icon. She took the pencil and drew the whole image from memory in fifteen minutes. She didn’t need to see it anymore.
But when they sent her a copy of the book they had used her pencil images and filled them in original colors. And they were amazing.
Sheila Garrett says: She looked at the sketches from the day. Trees, black and grey in the winter landscape, with downed logs pulled into a pile on the edge of the forest.
She pulled out her paints and considered coloring in the horses. No, they could stay as they were, penciled in outlines. She wondered if anyone would know the small dots below the feed bags were oats if she didn’t color them golden. No, that didn’t matter.
Carefully, she selected one color and made small strokes. Tiny cardinals pecked among the oats.
She looked at what she’d drawn, and it was good.
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