by Sally Naumko
The Artist wandered around his cellar, deep in thought. He picked up several empty canvasses, then replaced them. He knew that there was one perfectly suited for the purpose. He looked in the farthest corner of the cellar, and there it was! Reaching over the vast array of other empty canvasses, he pulled out the one he had been searching for. "Aaahhh...there you are!" he smiled and gently carressed the frayed worn out edges of the canvass. "You'll do just fine!" He crossed the cellar floor, by-passing thousands of other unused canvasses, stacked one atop the other, rows upon rows of them. He would be back again to choose another before too long. When he reached the top of the stairs, he held the canvass in the light, inspecting it closely. It was filthy, covered in black stains. He smiled to himself, and began to hum a soft tune. Gently placing it upon an easel, the Artist began his work. He picked up a jar of what appeared to be red paint, dipped his brush into it, and stroke after stroke, he covered the canvass. When he had finished, the canvass was not red, but pure white. It was whiter than new fallen snow in the winter. He stepped back a moment to admire his work. There was not a stain to be found! "Now" he said, "it is time to begin a magnificent piece of art!" Using the most brilliant of colours, the Artist began a portrait. He returned to the painting every day, and worked meticulously on every detail. This was not the only painting, but it was unique, as they all were. He paid special attention to every painting. He was working on innumerable compositions, but time was not an issue for him. He had all the time he needed. Each portrait had it's own beauty, they were all different, and yet in some mysterious way, they all looked similar. Those he had been working on the longest resembled each other the most. They had amazing colours, the like of which had never been seen before! And as they neared perfection, they looked more and more like the Artist's beloved Son! He and his Son walked through the gallery together often, discussing each work in detail. Every now and then a stain would appear on one of the paintings, and the Artist or would dip the paint brush into the red liquid and cover the stain. Again, the ugly stain would disappear, and the artist would continue his work. He knew that these portraits would never reach perfection until the subjects, his children, came home to live with him. Then they would reach the utmost purity and there would no longer be any stains or unfinished work! Each time one of his children came home, he rejoiced with them, and completed their portrait. As the artist worked one day, the Son came running into the room,excitement bursting out of him. "Yes, my Son? What is it?" he calmly asked, though he already knew why his Son was excited. "Another painting! It's completed! And here comes your daughter now!" cried the Son. The Artist placed his brush on the table, smiling to himself. This daughter had looked very much like his Son as she had lived her life. But now, her portrait was even more beautiful in it's completeness. He walked over to the door, and embraced his daughter as she entered his home. "Welcome my child!" He said quietly. "You are so very welcome here in your home!" She wept, and fell at his feet, overcome with joy! "You have worked hard and long my daughter." said the Artist. "Now you may enter your rest!" The Son took her by the hand then, and they walked out together. A warm smile graced the face of the Artist as he picked up the paintbrush. He returned to the work at hand, glancing out the window every now and then at his Son strolling through the garden with Mother Theresa.
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