The Unfinished Canvas

Heather has locked herself in her room, where she considers her art and its true meaning.

"She's been in there for days now," Tom sighed to himself with exasperation. "What is she doing in there?"

Her room was filled with sketches on cork board, laminated drawings, half-assembled buttons and mylar coatings in little plastic baggies, the finished buttons in a box that sat on another box filled with paintings. There were pages of her comic book from various issues in several binders that occupied the corner of her desk, yet by no means was her desk to be considered "tidy". In fact, the room was littered with art; the floor was barely visible, the walls were covered and re-covered with stacks of various portraits and landscapes, and the only light that seemed to bring this room any sense of tranquility emanated from the window, out of which a young oak tree could be seen.

She stood before a half-painted canvas, the easel slanting to one side. With her hands on her hips, she stared at the image before her: a man and a woman gazing into a sunset with war-torn faces. She knew the story behind this unfinished work, and she stood there, musing at what might have become of the couple outside of this painting, when Tom knocked on the door.

"Heather? Are you okay in there? We haven't seen you in three days now!"

She answered through the door, "yes, I'm fine dear, I'm just trying to finish this piece for the art show."

The art show wasn't for another three months, but Heather had to submit the painting prior to the event for consideration in the annual art competition, the grand prize being five thousand dollars. If she were to win, she would have enough money for tuition at a noted art university in San Francisco, where she hoped she would be noticed by comic book publishers from around the globe.

"Alright then," Tom sighed again. "If you need anything, let me know, okay?"

"Will do," she called, and silence resumed from behind the door.

Heather thought about her art and how all of her paintings, her drawings, and even the landscapes seemed to remind her of HIM: the one man who unknowingly brought her inspiration. She'd only known him for a few days; she'd met him on an arts' retreat in Connecticut. He had a dancer's physique with his long and slender body, and his muscles were well defined. He was quick in pace and sharp of mind, and in those few moments they shared, Heather knew he was too good to be true. She had ripped herself away from him so that he might find someone more suited to himself, and all she had gained was an aching longing to befriend him again and, of course, a muse.

As far as Tom and everyone else knew, her art was completely fantastic in nature, for most of her comic books took place in outer space. They could not begin to fathom that Heather was drawing out her lifelong adventures that would never happen, and memories elaborated to cosmic proportions. She drew herself as the protagonist, the "villain" and the "hero", and yet she would never dare utter his name again. He was her antagonist; he was the Lois Lane that Superman loved but could never touch.

She focused again on the painting. Heather still had to paint his persona. She considered his face, and painted it wrong intentionally to keep her secret safe. No one would ever know the truth about him.

Unfortunately, there is no happy ending for Heather. Of course, she may yet win the art competition and go to school, where she might learn that extra set of skills needed to sign a contract with a publishing company. There is hope that she could even be remembered long after she stops drawing and painting; but as far as Heather is concerned, he will not come back, and she will never ask him to.

Reviews

[zainul]

It is a wonderful portrayal of a lover who intends to conceal her aspiration.
I don't know the reason of such nature ,but I feel there are too many who follow this practice.
I expect some psychologist may explain such nature.
Thank you for sharing the lovely work.