By Mary Kathryn Cook

There once was a renowned artist who lived in a black and white world. He was known throughout this world as a brilliant realistic artist. Everything he created was drawn in extensive detail and he drew the black lines with ease. His art hung in galleries in expensive frames. People with overstuffed pockets clapped their fingers, the clink of their rings applause all their own. Then their gluttonous eyes moved on to the next piece in the gallery, losing interest once their eyes reached the next piece.

He was well-known, the mass public enjoyed his work, and he was constantly running to keep up with the fast paced world. He needed to be the best. He needed to showcase his abilities.

Except, he had run out of ideas.

Currently, he was pacing around his tiny dark one-bedroom art studio. Grey light streamed in from the two tiny windows which opened out on a tiny street.

Many white papers filled with black lines covered the floor. The artist didn’t seem to care that he was crumbling them underfoot. He could draw everything! Lionesses growling, flowers blooming, women brushing their hair! But he was bored with anything that popped into his mind.

As he walked to the other side of the room, he ran a long, lean white hand through the dark mop of hair on top of his head. He stopped and dropped his head on the window, arms crossed and his weight on one hip. His grey eyes surveyed the busy street in front of him. Mothers and children were walking to the park across the way, merchants were peddling their wares, and dogs were snuffling in the garbage.

He sighed, frustrated with himself. There was an art exhibit in two months and he was completely out of ideas. He muttered to himself, “You’ll get no inspiration by looking out two tiny windows.” He pushed off the window, strode across the room, grabbed his black jacket off the grey chair, snagged the tall black hat off of the coat rack, and slammed the door behind him as he left.

 

He walked down the grey street, hurrying away from the busy city. His feet tapping the pavement, his eyes turned upwards to take in the darkening grey sky. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply the fresh country air. Eyes opening, he was searching for inspiration while walking past a little white picket fence when he lazily looked over to the house and on the front steps—

He came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the woman in the rocking chair. Her grey hair was coiled gracefully on top of her head, a few pieces hanging down by her cheeks. Her slender neck was bent over her lap, her lips were parted, and her tongue stood out between them. She was gently rocking back and forth tapping her little pale bare foot. She was angelically beautiful, though it was not her looks which caught his attention. What caught his eye was in her lap. It looked like a blanket! Except, it was not black, grey, or white. It was an entirely different color all together.

It was… airy. It was light and open. It was peaceful and yet it seemed sad, somehow. The artist could not come up with the words to describe what was in her lap.

This was it! This was the next brilliant thing he could do in the art world!

He needed it. He must have it!

He rushed over the little white picket fence which separated him from her, leaned over until he was nearly bent in half, and called to the woman, “My lady! What is that you have in your lap?”

She sat up abruptly and let loose a yelp at his voice. The fabric fell to the white porch steps, and from the way she rubbed her tongue, it was clear she had bitten it.

Whoops.

The artist felt the blood rush to his cheeks as she stared at him with an accusatory light in her fiery eyes. She leaned over and plucked the wonderfully colored fabric with two graceful fingers.

“I am sewing a blanket, sir. What does it look like I am doing?” Her face showed irritation at his presence at her picket fence.

The artist would not be put off by a disgruntled facial expression. He was the best artist in the world! He would not be kept from the colors!

“No, my good lady. I mean how did you make that exquisite color?”

The woman looked confused at his question. She stroked the blue fabric sitting in her lap. She brushed the stray grey hairs back behind her ears, “This color I call blue.” She paused for a moment “I-I felt sad, so I felt like making it. Haven’t you ever made something because you felt compelled to do so?” She stared at him with curiosity burning in her eyes.

The artists scoffed, “Art is not feeling. It is about impressing people! It is about making things people will buy!” Then he pointed to himself, “I am the best artist in the world, and if you tell me how to make the colors I will be the best artist to ever live!” He looked at the woman eagerly awaiting to be invited in.

Only she didn’t.

She stared at him with thinly veiled disgust in her eyes.

He gulped hard.

She appraised him slowly. “No, I cannot teach you how to make the colors.” She had a far off look in her eyes and muttered, “Least of all the color blue. I don’t think you have loved a thing in your life.” She cleared her throat and refocused her eyes, “Furthermore sir, I would not want to teach you even if I could.”

The artist’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t you know who I am?!” he said indignantly. The artist pushed off the white picket fence and stood straight, glaring angrily at the grey haired woman.

The woman too stood to her full height and caught his eyes with a fiery glare. “Pardon me sir, but I do not really care.” With that she grabbed her blue blanket and stormed inside. The white door made a loud bang echoing across the tiny country neighborhood.

He stood slack jawed on the grey street outside the little white house with the little white picket fence. He stood.

And he stood.

The grey haired woman’s words echoed in his head.

 

It was late when he reached the city. He stomped into his dark apartment. He shucked off his black jacket and threw it into the blackness. He walked in and struggled to find a candle. He tripped over his discarded jacket, banged his knee on the desk. He cursed loudly and fell. His expensive vase shattered on the floor. He felt his feet crunch the glass of the vase as he worked his way around his desk until his fingers fumbled and found the cold glass of lamp. He located the cardboard box of matches next to them and lit the lamp. His dark art studio was lit with grey light.

He would do this! He would prove the woman wrong!

He threw all of the used white parchment paper off his dark desk and onto the messy floor. He grabbed a new white parchment, grabbed his sketching pencil, and dropped down heavily into his dark wooden chair.

“I’ll show her! I’m the best artist in the world!” he shouted to his empty room. Only the cats in the alley answered him.

Hours later, dawn was creeping through his window. Fresh grey light fell through his two tiny windows and alighted on the artist’s dark, messy head. He was staring at the paper with a few absent minded pencil marks on it.

His mind was blank.

His mind was completely and utterly blank. There were no ideas running through his head. It was blanker than it had been the day previously.

That was not strictly true. The grey haired woman with the fiery eyes and her blue blanket, stitched by the most graceful hands, kept running through his mind. He swore he could hear her words echoing off the blank walls of of his dark art studio.

“Haven’t you ever made something because you felt compelled to do so?”

He ran his hands through his unruly black hair.

He sighed.

He dropped his pencil.

He stretched.

He sighed.

Finally, he picked up the pencil and started drawing. By the time he finished the light was streaming in and lying across the white parchment paper in front of him.

There were more black lines than he had seen before on any of his artwork. They were curled and long and slender. The grey haired woman was on the paper. Her fiery eyes stared up at him from the parchment.

The artist traced over her lines with his fingers. He followed as her grey hair was piled on top of her head. His fingers followed as the few pieces fell from her messy bun. He traced up her neck and to the slope of her nose. His fingers followed the slender lines of her cheeks to her lips. He traced them and imagined her saying those words to him.

“Haven’t you ever made something because you felt compelled to do so?”

He tore his hand abruptly from the paper.

The dark chair scraped the floor with a large screech and fell back with a bang with the artist still in the chair. The artist tumbled out, flipped over himself, and landed on his knees and hands.

He breathed heavily.

His chest heaving panting up and down. He stared cautiously up at his dark wood desk with the grey lamp light shining upon it.

It-it couldn’t be. There, there, there was no way!

She said she couldn’t teach him—

The artist stood slowly from the floor. The papers rustled beneath his feet. He lifted the paper up into the morning grey light and looked at his picture.

He didn’t understand, He only used his fingers. He didn’t use his pencil…

On the grey-haired woman’s lips there was a color. It was only slightly lighter than grey, but it was there none the less. It looked almost…feminine. Yes, that was it! It was feminine and gentle and looked very soft. Flower petals blooming with hope in the spring. He traced the lines with his fingers and he whispered, “Beautiful”.

Just like the grey-haired woman.

As the dawn fully shone in through his two tiny windows. The grey light seemed brighter and he decided that he would call this new color…

“Pink,” he breathed into the light.

 

Mary Kathryn Grace Cook studies English Literature and Catholic Studies at St. Edward’s University. She has enjoyed reading since she was a little girl and her father read her “Bedtime Tales of Mother Goose”, and writing since her mother made up bedtime stories about the flying unicorn named Grace. Besides writing, she enjoys playing the mandolin, photography, and swing dancing.

Photo by Paula Santos.