It was just a brushstroke

It was just a brushstroke. 

One among countless others, this one was different. Its presence stood out. It didn’t belong. It was all wrong. The color, value, angle or placement was such that it changed the nature of the entire painting. She was a better painter than this, she told herself. How could you have thought such a stroke was a good idea?

Rather than quickly wipe it away, or cover it up, the artist stepped back and looked at the arrant stoke. “What gave it such power?” she wondered. “Why does such a relatively small stroke dominate the piece?”

Staring at the painting, she seemed to look beyond the canvas at a piece of art beyond. She remembered when she thought her life would be a work of art, one that inspired and comforted all who came across it. She wanted her life to be a masterpiece, and remembered fondly those times that really “worked,” as she so often says of particular places in a painting.

Like the painting on the easel, however, there were also brushstrokes that didn’t fit, others that were all wrong, and some that changed the nature of the entire painting. With brush and rag in hand, she wished she could wipe away or cover such brushstrokes, but she was wise enough to know such corrections weren’t possible.  In graduate school, she was told, “There are no mistakes in art or life,” but such a notion inspired her as much as made her want to throw up. “Some things just suck,” she sighed.

After a few more moments of staring, she rose from the stool, lifting the brush and not the rag, she incorporated the brushstroke into the piece.

It was just a brushstroke.