The paint on her canvas had begun to weigh on her. She could
feel it. To her, the process seemed to drag on and she didn’t understand. She
struggled, knowing that tension between her level of involvement in her own
process and letting the Master paint was difficult but necessary if she truly
wanted to become the Masterpiece that was, supposedly, underway.
This constant tension, though, was hard to bear. Sometimes
she felt that her canvas had begun to stretch and this tension that was
supposed hold her canvas taught so the Master could work had begun to wane and,
God forbid, maybe her canvas had begun to sag, just a little. Sometimes the
paint didn’t feel beautiful, it just felt heavy.
In a moment though, He uttered her Name. Though she could
only feel and not see it, whenever her name was uttered she could feel a surge
of life reverberate through her colors. And for a moment they felt lighter….Sometimes
she wondered what it looked like to the Master Painter.
“What is it?” He asked.
She knew that so often she was the one to begin the conversations;
this time was different. Maybe He could see her fatigue, she thought. Of course
He can, she told herself. He knows the answer, but maybe I don’t…it wouldn’t be
the first time. Maybe I just need to try.
But I don’t know how.
Usually it was the Master to linger in pause. But this time,
instead of just talking she all but let out a sigh and just thought for a while.
What really is going on with me? She
mused, almost scared to dive too deep.
“Art is hard, Master.” She finally stated, not dismissively
but also not knowing where to start.
He didn’t smile, which surprised her a little. He nodded,
and his brow furrowed just a bit, enough where she could see a flash of pain
across his countenance—and then He took a deep breath.
“Yeah.”
“If it’s hard, why do You do it?” She dug a little deeper.
As she asked that, she watched his brow unfurrow and an
expression she’d never seen before wash over not just His face, but his entire
demeanor. It was peaceful, not angry, and it seemed like a subject He was happy
to talk about. He sat back on his creaky stool and responded:
“Because it’s worth it.”
“How?”
He nodded, as if to say that He had actually wanted that question
to follow. He slowly swiveled around on his stool to look at another painting
in the Studio and asked,
“Do you remember talking about my Son’s portrait?”
“Of course.” She said, and when He didn’t continue right
away she wondered if she had missed the point. But then He did continue after
all.
“I told you that He is the image of Me, and that in the same
way that He does in his portrait, I wish for you to emulate the image of My character.”
“Yes, I remember that conversation.” She said, still
wondering if she was missing something.
“Nothing was more difficult than that Portrait, my love,
because another way of putting it is basically this: that painting is a
Self-Portrait.”
“But…”
“Yes…” He cut her off, nodding even more, and still gazing
at the radiant, perfect Work of Art in question while explaining,
“…Yes, it is my Son. But my Son is the image of Me. And to
be honest, the way that this works is for another conversation. But my point is
that no Portrait has ever been a more difficult process. An Artist is no true
artist who doesn’t undergo a process themselves in the production of art, and
the process I underwent in the Creation of my own Self-Portrait--in my Son--was
the most difficult of all.”
“So…”
“Yes…” He beat her to her question again. “Yes, but it was worth it.”
“But…how?!” She
managed, not absolutely certain she was missing the carefully crafted message
of her Artist.
He turned back around on his stool. She now looked at Him
and the Painting behind Him, simultaneously appreciating all of it but also cognizant
of the fact that she couldn’t fully comprehend it either. She watched as He
gazed thoughtfully at His hands. She noticed again His scars, the ones she
often forgot about but somehow managed to grow, strangely, more beautiful every
time she actually took a moment to look at them. This phenomenon was just yet
another thing about her Master that she didn’t fully grasp. But first things
first, she thought. She was still tired, and unusually quiet in this dialogue.
She knew the Master had heard her question, and she also knew that His cadence
was very different than hers. He would respond in time.
He spoke quietly, and in His voice she heard the pain she’d
seen on His face before. But it was an “in the past” sort of pain—somehow—and she
heard something else too on top of that pain, but couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
She just listened.
“It was at the height of that process that my hands began to
bleed. The process of that painting called for Blood, My Blood, for the consummation
and realization of the Masterpiece.”
He paused here, and moved in closer to her, his face so closely
examining her canvas. She felt in that moment that every last flaw of her
canvas must have been under the strict scrutiny of His all-seeing eye, when
then He spoke again.
“And then that Blood, once spilled, could clean any canvas
that wanted it, that believed in it. That wanted to become a Masterpiece.
Redemption, you could call it. And that’s what happened to you. So that
process, though brutal and more difficult than any other, was a gateway for
Masterpiece after Masterpiece…including your own. So, yes. Yes, it was worth
it. You’re worth it.”
At these words, she felt small. Not because she didn’t
believe them but because she suddenly realized that what she felt to be extra
weight on her canvas could never compare to the process her Artist had just
described. Maybe, she thought, she had just needed a little perspective.
“But that’s not where you were going with all of that, was
it, my love?” He smiled at her. He knew her indeed.
“No, it’s not. But it I needed to hear it, I think…I mean, I
know. I’m going to have to think
about all of that.”
This time He sat, painting, waiting for her to expound. And
when she was ready, she did.
“Okay, so here it is. I’m tired. I know that’s selfish and
so small of me, but Master, I can’t see what You do. I just keeping sitting here,
getting worked on and none of it seems to
make sense. I mean, you work on one corner for a while and layer after
layer happens and I get comfortable and start seeing an image there and then
you move to a different spot! So I have all of these areas that You’ve worked
on all over my canvas and they don’t seem to be coherent! It feels like I’m a
collage rather than Image that is to somehow resemble You someday! And
then it just gets heavy. And then some of these corners, these little images
you make I really like—and when you’re working on one of them I begin to wonder
if you’ve started working on the “bigger picture” of me –like maybe that’s the
direction this picture of me is going and it never is so far. I just
don’t understand, Master. What are you
doing?”
She had to stop for breath. Something had just been released
in her and she almost surprised herself with her own honesty.
“Is all of me ever
going to make sense?”
She uttered this last part almost under her breath. But the
Painter never missed a word. He let her calm down for a moment, letting her
know that He fully appreciated her struggle before He spoke to it.
“Darling, Art never seems logical to the piece of art. Indeed,
it may often not look logical even to some onlookers. But the Artist always
knows. And you can’t have Masterpiece without the process. And, again, that
process will only make sense to the One who knows his Artistry. I know. And Darling,
I know you know that, but I also need you to know that there is a method to the
process I’ve chosen, and if you continue to let that method be worked out on
you the result will not only be good, it will be optimal. My love, don’t forget that your painting tells a story.
You are an image, yes, but your image tells a story. And what seems to be
fragments of a narrative splattered all over your surface right now, will
eventually intertwine and weave together in a way you can’t contemplate right
now. Yes, there are gaps for now. And yes, some things may not make sense for a
while, but I promise you that I know what I’m doing. No stroke is an accident,
though folly it may sometimes seem.”
She nearly flinched at the statement that “no stroke is an
accident,” and was reminded of her canvas’ loosening tension again as a result.
“Master?” She asked, not wanting to forget what He had just
said.
“Yes, my love?”
“I hear You. And I hear what You’re saying. I can see that
for You, this is Perfect and Logical, while for me—and for anyone who’s
watching, I suppose—this all looks like folly. But, I trust You.”
He smiled as she went on:
“I mean, I’ve seen your Work and I really do, I trust You. But
I really do feel like this is a heavy part of your Method right now. Can You
tighten me up?”
“Of course! I’m so glad you asked me to, my love! It may
hurt for a moment, but it will pass. You’re right that you need it. And I will
absolutely affirm that right now things are hard.”
He reached for the tools to stretch her little canvas
taught, and added:
“But what will it be?”
She nodded. Worth it, she knew. She didn’t need to say it.
