My fingers gripped the smooth wooden brush, and my hand gently caressed the pearl white canvas in front of me. The easel stood under it, steady and strong. My pallet of sleek and pure colors, freshly squeezed right out of the tube, was glistening under the light, each accounted for. The smirking red, the royal blue. The ominous black, and the angelic white. All stood exactly one centimeter apart, each in its own sphere of color. Yet all of a sudden, the chic and silky white was disturbed by a single touch of brush hairs on its oily surface. The brush left a dent in the white, and went on to victimize the blue. When the blue felt its first touch, the pure colors were no longer pure. The colors became mixed. The blue with the white, and the white with the blue. Then the two carefully mixed colors became the very first thing on my canvas: the clear sky.

            As my brush worked its way further down the canvas, blurry silhouettes of objects, people, and backgrounds started taking shape. The fuzzy lines of a building, the still image of a person, the messily estimated clouds. Then, even with the few blank spots left, the individual bits and pieces started coming to life, as the pink Hollister jackets, clear sandwich bags and faraway posters were becoming visible. The dots had meanings, lives, stories. The pony tailed girl wearing a pink Hollister jacket had a name. The clear sandwich bag being thrown away had a function. The faraway posters being hung by supporters were being seen.

Suddenly, the brush slipped, the colors crossed. The ugly splatter of brown was too clear, too noticeable. The lines were smeared, and the painting seemed hopeless. Wiping it away was pointless, as the smudge only got bigger and darker. The only way was to wait for it to dry and then paint over it. Yet although to others the painting seemed ruined forever, I smiled anyway. Mistakes were to be made. That’s the only way to learn to avoid the same thing the next time. Either I needed to dry my brush more, or add less water to the color. Both ways, I will know what to do next time.

I waited for the paint to dry. As I waited, I rinsed my brush and started over the color mixing. Just as I was about to draw over the smudge, a loud shrilling racket overcame all possible thoughts and actions. I was a moment too late. The school bell, an indication of the end of lunch, had just rung. In unison, the pink jacket turned, the sandwich bag flew into the trashcan, and the last corner of the poster was taped shut. That moment was gone. My subjects leave their poses, and walk out of my frame. And I moved too. I picked up my canvas. My unfinished canvas.