The Artist

The artist stepped back and looked at the drawing she had just finished—a single stemmed flower arising out of a narrow vase. The drawing was slightly left of center beginning in the lower half of the paper and rising to just above the center mark.
As she stared down at the canvas the artist couldn’t help thinking that her picture needed something else. In fact, from the placement of the vase and flower, it seemed she intended all along to include something else.

But what, and besides, didn’t she always feel that way when she looked at a new drawing?

She went to sleep that night with visions of a lonely flower floating in her head. Tomorrow, she thought to herself, we will find you a friend to join you on that page.

The next day she showed the drawing to her teacher, who, after complimenting her on the beautiful flower, agreed that it needed more.

"You need to balance the paper," she said, "with something on top and over here. Perhaps you could contrast the beauty of the flower with something harsher or something rougher looking.

"Or maybe you could draw something inanimate. Something that would give it a certain life/death theme."

All of the teacher's suggestions made sense to the artist. But she still wasn't sure exactly what she would do. She thanked the teacher and promised to let her see the final product.

When she got home, she showed the drawing to her younger brother. "I think it needs something else but I don't know what," she said.

"Why don't you put some coins up there," he said.

"Why coins?"

"Why not?"

"I'm serious," she said.

"Okay," he said, "why don't you put some different vases with different flowers"?

"That makes more sense than coins," she kidded him. Maybe she could do some different vases. She made some sketches of different vases, and tried to imagine where she would put them in her drawing.

But then it would be a picture of vases, she thought. That's not what I started with. Maybe the flower does need something more but I don't think more vases are the answer.

Her dad suggested a hook coming out of the wall with maybe a little crack in the plaster to give the viewer something to think about.

She appreciated the idea, but as she explained to him, there wasn't a wall there to begin with. The vase and flower are just there. There is no wall.

"Well, maybe, that's what's missing," he said. The flower is just there—all alone. How about if you put it on a windowsill or a table."

"Then it won't be weird and I want it to be weird. I don't want it to be your standard drawing of a flower in a vase on a table in front of a wall."

"So you left out the table?"

"And the wall."

"That's weird, all right."

The artist was back to square one. Maybe the flower is not lonely, after all. Maybe, it's just unfriendly. Maybe it's not even my problem. Maybe, it's the flower's fault.

The artist entertained that thought for a moment or two and then came to her senses. It's not the flower's fault, silly. I put it there—alone in the vase—with a big blank spot next to it. It's my fault.

The artist was just as intrigued by that thought too, but again came to her senses. It's not my fault, either. I'm doing the best I can. I want to put something else on the paper. I just don't know what.

But I know what it doesn't need. It doesn't need a hook or a windowsill or a table or more flowers or coins. It definitely doesn't need any coins.

Another day was drawing to a close. She’d gone to school and done her homework and her chores. She played a little bit with her friends, most of who agreed that she should draw a picture of that cute boy in algebra next to the flower.

Anyway, it was time to go to bed and she still didn't know what to do. She looked at the drawing again. She was starting to get used to it floating on the page by itself.

But everyone else agreed with her that it needed something else. They can't all be wrong, she thought. Even I think it needs something else—I think.

She put the drawing on the table by her bed, looked at it one more time, shut the light and tried to go to sleep.

But she could still see the flower. With the lights out and no one else in the room, the flower in the vase just seemed to float in mid air in her imagination. And guess what?

It looked all right there—all alone—not on a page all alone; but on its own, all alone. It didn't look lonely or isolated. It looked the way a flower in a vase should look.

The artist slept very well that night and the next morning, she knew what she would do. That flower, she thought, is the way it is because that is the way I drew it and I am the artist. It is me.

The artist stands alone.

And so will the flower.