dab

She felt her patience thinning, her mouth tightening to hold in her poor temper. She hated that they watched her, waited for her. This is not how she wanted it to be. She wanted to be left alone, aloof from expectations and separate from the constraints of sharing. Once she had hungered for this inclusion, fought to be allowed in, begged to be part of a bigger world. Not now though. If she could wish herself anywhere it would be someplace other than this, someplace solitary, to be left alone with the beautiful light.

She noticed movement behind her, the Master was approaching. She took the time to count slowly to ten, taking in a long slow breath and exhaling it with deliberate care. He strode towards her without hurry but nevertheless he took a dead straight line towards her. He stopped when he reached her side. She gave him the merest of nods, without turning her head even the smallest bit, to acknowledge his arrival.

Silence hung between them until he asked permission to look at her work. More silence until she relented a little and suggested that it would be best if he waited until her work was complete. He had noticed her hesitation and this was the reply he feared would come from her. He widened his stance and put his hands behind his back. Politely, but firmly, he was insisting that she meet him partway. 

She started wiping her brush clean with the rag she kept tucked in her belt. She took her time, her full attention on the task. Only when her truculent ritual was complete did she stand back from her work, revealing it in its entirety to him.

He appraised her technique, her style, her picture’s outer trappings. He saw that something was missing but he struggled to pin point it. Was it passion perhaps?

‘Why do you dab?’ He asked.

‘Is that how you see it?’ She retorted, her eyes never leaving her canvas. He may question her approach and intent, even try to give reasons for her mess. She would not explain it. She would not participate. She would see him suffer.

‘Well, yes, it is how I see it. You don’t feel that you are unsympathetic in your rendering of the landscape?’ He enquired in a low, encouraging tone. 

‘No.’ Came her curt reply.

‘But surely this is a serene, lush and beautiful sight to depict. Your work so far seems to have missed that. The light will fade soon, capture what you can so that you will remember it for when we return to the studio.’ He was a little put out by her lack of civility. He knew she was different, and she did intrigue him, but not for the first time did he wonder if she had true talent. Or a heart.

‘I dab, I don’t dabble’. She spat out, surprising him as he began to walk away. He stopped mid stride, fighting to master his temper before he turned back towards her.

‘I know all to well that you don’t dabble.’ He said, loud enough for her alone to hear. 

She gathered up her paints, put her stool and easel under one arm and her canvas under the other. He stood there and watched, not offering to help. She walked around him, caring little for the tight look on his face.

The others were all packed up and ready to leave by the time she joined them. She asked them how their work had gone, not bothering to wait for their replies. The Master had told them to be pleased with their progress, and so they were. 

Next morning, back in the studio, the work began again on their paintings. The others had only finishing touches to make, small adjustments to texture and detail, some fluffing around the edges. All diligently applied themselves, seeking favour with the Master, except her.

She stood back from her canvas, gnawing on a brush. On occasion she shifted her weight from side to side, as if to see better. She did not speak. Her brush left her mouth so that she could take a sip of water and returned there unerringly once her thirst was dealt with. When they broke for lunch she still had not made a mark on her painting. They sniggered at her but the Master soon put a stop to that.

‘Look to your own work, do not be easily satisfied, be critical because I most certainly will be.’ He warned.

She paid no attention to him and he repaid her in kind. He walked around the others' works offering his insights, avoiding her as if she was contagious. At the end of the day, when they made to leave, she asked him if she could stay back. He agreed, regretting his words in an instant when he realized she had not invited him to stay with her. She wanted only the studio and nothing else from him.

He left there and went off to enjoy a light supper with friends. He was pleased that his company had been sought out and that his presence was appreciated by some at least. He passed the studio on his way home and noted that a light was on and, when he tried it, the door was unlocked. His curiosity was undeniable and the evenings pleasantries emboldened him.

He made no attempt to announce himself but he didn’t creep in either. He found her sitting on her stool, her smock covered in paint, exhausted. The light from her canvas was breathtaking. He didn’t see the landscape of yesterday, he felt it. Now he understood. She was all about the emotion of the moment, the connection. She told a complete story, not satisfied with anything less. Each dab stroke was part of a language rather than part of a picture.

He came up behind her, lifted her from her stool and turned her towards him. 

‘Your thoughts?’ She asked him.

‘It is you that is the Master.’ He said. ‘I will not dabble anymore, neither with paints or you.’

His other students turned up the next morning to find the studio locked. There was a note pinned to the door. It directed them to the landlady, so that they could collect their belongings, and to another Master for their studies. He would not be returning - and she had gone with him.

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