Writing Prompt

My god, this art is so beautiful. I entered an art competition mostly for fun, but this piece may go above and beyond. I don’t say my piece may be the best one yet to toot my own horn, I say this because this is like no other art I’ve done. It’s…a self-portrait, but also an abstract of sorts. It tells such a profound story while leaving room for an onlooker to choose their own climax and ending. The brushes’ strokes are so pronounced, almost like you can see the short, fine hairs. They twist and run and splat; they wonder how they can interact in this world they’ve been brought into. There are calming blues and fiery oranges, melodic pinks and blissful greens, even the black shines as it is sprinkled throughout the art.

My god, this piece is so beautiful. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make something this powerful again. Now, I don’t say this to discredit my ability, I am an artist through and through and a proud one at that. It’s just that…something about today, something about the groove I was in, something about the visions of bringing my thoughts to life-it just all Clicked.

My god, this is what beauty looks like

As I looked around the gallery at the pieces of artwork created, a sense of calm rushed over me. The artwork displayed in the room was beautiful, there was no denying that. The work was produced by artists, after all, and they had spent much time perfecting their pieces. I, of course, was not an artist. At least, I wasn’t an artist in the same sense that they were. Their creativity shown through on canvases and in photography and sculptures, while mine had only ever been on display in my writing. This was the first and likely last art contest I would enter, and yet, I knew, looking around the room, that mine may be a contender for winning.

Right next to me, there was a traditional oil painting of a landscape that utilized color and precision to portray a specific setting. So delicate in its exactness, I found myself, the observer, getting lost in the scenery it provided. To me, the setting was that of an English countryside, but the young man that had created the piece was standing in front of the easel, anxiously pulling on his suspenders, so I thought it best not to ask any questions.

On the other side of me, another artist was unveiling another piece of work, but hers was much more contemporary. She had torn hundreds of eyes out of magazines and covered an entire canvas with them. Of course, I did not ask her what the eyes represented, as the purpose of contemporary art is to provoke thought. My own interpretation of the piece was that it represented diversity by providing the observer with the opportunity to understand that the lens from which one person views the world does not always align with the lens another crafts their interpretation from.

Across the room from me, a woman dressed in baggy, oversized clothes stood in front of an unveiled sculpture. She glanced around the room, as if she wanted to ensure she wasn’t attracting any attention to herself before she hesitantly pulled the white sheet off the sculpture, revealing her artwork. I was surprised as I watched, because beneath the sheet was the sculpture of a nude woman, and I turned my attention back to the artist, who so carefully concealed her own body in oversized clothes and considered what a contrast her conservative appearance was to that of her more liberal work. To me, the artist was perhaps even more interesting than her sculpture.

The artwork I made for the contest was not as confrontational, but instead, it had been created with the intention of provoking thought. In the piece, I had utilized a small paintbrush to embed a thin, white line across a canvas that I had painted black. The line started on the left side of the painting, but it ended abruptly, only three fourths of the way across the canvas. I wanted the observer to question what the ending of the line represented. I wanted the observer to wonder why it ended so abruptly, as well as to contemplate why it was unable to complete its journey across the dark canvas, making it from one side to the next.

My own interpretation was that the dark canvas represented life and how dark it and often times, the people in our lives, truly are, while the white line represented the moments and the few people in life that actually make the often mundane trek worth it. Originally, I questioned whether it was somewhat cliche to utilize white and black in the piece, but then I realized colorism was perhaps the best way to encourage the observer to consider the concepts of darkness and lightness in their own lives. From an analytical perspective, those were the only two colors whose contrasts most captured what I wanted the artwork to convey.

When I created the piece, I thought of all the darkness I had encountered in life and all the dark moments people had created for me. As I painted the white canvas black, I felt a sense of relief, as if their chaos was exiting me and finding its way into my art. The white line, on the other hand, much like the color, was a stark contrast to the darkness. At first, I worried that the observer may interpret it as a hospital instrument used to monitor a heart rate, but then I realized that interpretation would not necessarily be unwelcome. To me, however, the precision of the thin, white line represented orderliness, or rather, the absence of chaos. To me, it represented the moments and people that had, in some way, beckoned me through the darkness of the whirlwind of situations that life had created around me, and that I, somehow, had the strength to endure. To me, it represented the moments and the people that made me want that line to continue.

I stepped back from the canvas and took a deep breath, again, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. After all, the hardest part of the art project had been completed. There is no interview with art. Instead, it falls upon the artist to not only ask themselves questions about their work and what they want it to represent but to utilize their creativity to answer those questions as well, which is what I had done.

As I glanced around the room, I felt confident that my piece may be a contender for winning. When I looked back at the black canvas with the thin, white line, only making it three fourths of the way across the piece of art before reaching its abrupt end, I thought about all the people and places both the darkness and lightness represented. Perhaps more importantly, however, I realized that it didn’t matter if I won an award for my work. No acknowledgement could surpass the feeling of triumph that I felt, knowing that the piece of artwork I created was symbolic of the difficulties I had already overcome at such a young age.

In spite of all the darkness on that canvas, along with the moments and the people they represented, I was standing there, in front of my artwork, and I smiled to myself, looking at the thin, white line, recalling the few, though significant people that I had compressed into that thin, white line, as well as the fond memories of them that I had carried with me.

For whatever reason, though admittedly, not for a lack of once trying, my own thin, white line, unlike that of so many others, had not abruptly ended. For whatever reason, even though the darkness people had created for me had, at times, been too much, I had survived. Looking at the thin, white line, I realized that in so many ways, and perhaps for reasons beyond my understanding, I had already won, and that achievement meant far more to me than any award ever could.

Of course, I did not vocalize what the artwork represented to me. After all, I created it to provoke thought, not to force an interpretation on anyone. To me, however, the thin, white line, with its abrupt ending, was in honor of so many that had been overwhelmed by the dark situations they encountered that were out of their control and did not make it through. To me, the thin, white line, with its abrupt ending was in honor of those that had been overwhelmed by the dark situations they had encountered that were out of their control, yet somehow, did manage to find their way through. To me, the thin, white line was a silent salute to them and both their victories and their losses, and it was a silent salute to me and mine too.

I would never willingly describe myself as conceited, or having possessed a quality so demeaning as arrogance. It was not within my character to inflate myself, or position myself upon a pedestal, but it appeared to me that the arts were capable of conjuring such a thing inside of me.

My ego thrived off of the unexpected attention that surrounded my quaint, minute portrait. It depicted a woman, slouched and parall to the curvature of the tree that she sat beside, with her hands cupping a slumped, sallow face. The brush strokes were tender, although the woman had been painted with malice within her eyes. I knew the deft flick of green to offset the shrubbery had been a delightful decision. Many around me praised me on my newfound craft, and it resonated well with me.

I was yet to see anything else that was tantamount to the painting I had created. A young woman, similar in age to myself, had entered something that was bordering between the abstract and a garish caricature. She smiled at me, and chose to wave. It was a mistake when it wasn't reciprocated on my behalf, and I gave her a saturated glare. Her hand was lowered, and she turned away, straightening her easel as she did so.

I wasn't expecting anyone else to approach me, but a hand touched my shoulder. It surprised me, and I didn't approve of the silent announcement. I turned around, and was met with the critical eye of an older man. He had subconsciously emulated the style of clothing as to which the woman bore in my painting, but that didn't detract him from scrutinising the brush strokes from a close proximity.

'It's rather charming, don't you think?' I said. He looked up from over his glasses, and I knew he was the embodiment of criticism from his singular gaze.

'I have to disagree,' he said pointedly. 'The woman's features are overly blended, and the background is too static.' His fingers gestured vaguely over the mottled hues of green and yellow. 'What, exactly, were you trying to create here?'

I paused, and deftly searched my mind for some justification. Although I shouldn't have to explain something so personal and beautiful as one's own art form, and he should be aware of that. 'I wanted to show the fragility of nature,' I said, with a profound ease. 'The woman and nature are at equilibrium with each other, do you see?' I mimicked his wandering fingers, and gestured to his reference point. 'To overly blend something shows a tenderness, a vulnerability. I believe it to be rather provoking.'

He scoffed, and removed his glasses from his face. It was weathered, and replicated a sculpture that had been relentlessly beaten down by time. It occured to me that he saw his age as an advantage, or as some leverage to hold against me when scrutinising my work. The thought didn't sit comfortably with me, and I waited for him to resume his criticism.

His eyes crinkled together as he looked at my painting. He held his fingers out as if capturing a motion picture, or gathering the proportions for a photograph. I noted that there was paint upon his hands. 'Your proportions are off. What did you use as your reference?'

'My mind,' I said. 'And I saw the subject in person, but she didn't know I was looking at-'

'You mean to tell me that you created this,' he pointed to the painting, 'in your mind?' He shook his head, and began to walk away. I wasn't content with the conviction he had used to declare my work void of technical accuracy, but verbally contradicting him was futile. I noted that a few spectators had gathered to watch our conversation, and my hands began to dig into the warm palms of my hand. It stung, although not as much as the resonation of the man's words within my mind.

A woman came up to me, and patted my shoulder with some sincerity. 'I think it's a very accomplished painting, sweetie. Don't be disheartened.' Her perfume was too potent for my liking, and the comment was rendered useless in comparison to his critique. I thanked her courteously, and emitted an artificial smile. She returned one with more sincerity than I could muster, and walked away with a painting under her arm. The gesture was appreciated, but it failed to compensate for my deflated mood.

Perhaps the painting was too devoid of life, or lacking in proportions. The more I chose to analyse it, the more undesirable it appeared to be. It didn't project the intended vulnerability I had seen in the woman. It dissipated into the hum and lull of the oppressive crowd. The colours were as bland as the community hall we were situated in, stripped of anything I had witnessed in the park. It wasn't executed well enough, or so the man had led me to believe.

I sat in the folding chair I had lumbered along with me, and tucked my feet up so that my knees were bent. My hand cupped my deflated chin, and I stared vacantly around. The chair propped me up against the man's gaze from across the room. Any praise was lost to me in those final hours. I occupied myself with the promise of a blissful breeze, the sun's tender kiss, and the consummation of grass with my fragile skin.

My heart was pounding, I was bound to win. I mean, I did have the best piece here. But as I waited for them to announce first place, I got more and more nervous. I looked up at Jenny and Olivia, who had been awarded second and third place. The red head judge raised the microphone to her lips, “And first place goes to Johnathan Lee!” “What?” I heard myself say without letting myself say it. Everyone stopped and looked at me. “But…but I have the best piece! Doesn’t that say ‘Laura Clark’? Maybe it got smudged.” I fretted, I didn’t even place! As I kept talking, I started to feel embarrassed. I’m such a snob! I turned my head to look at my art. The girl in my painting stared back at me. Even she seemed to have a look of disapproval. “I have the best piece yet.” I stammered, “I do- don’t I?” “If you would stop feeling sorry for yourself- Johnathan deserves this medal.” The red head judge snapped. And with that, they put the medal around his shoulders, said his name again, and everyone left with their art.

The dirt is a grayish brown. It’s scattered all over with untamed grass that grows over the ground. The grass grows on the tombstones, that sit like tiny Easter Island heads, abandoned ones. And lastly, a stormy night, black clouds, a lightning bolt striking a cross, a stormy night.

It wasn’t often I presented my art anywhere, to anyone - let alone at any sort of contest. My art pieces doubled as pieces of myself. I wasn’t the most confident individual, and inviting in criticism has never been a strong-suit. So to ask that my “pieces of self” be judged was entirely out-of-character. But this drawing was different. Generally I didn’t think much about the technical appearance of my projects. Art is expressive; it’s supposed to make you feel something. It’s not simply supposed to be pleasing to the eye. Thus, whether or not someone might find my art ‘pretty’ was never high on my priority list. I enjoyed illustrating fantasy scenes - fairy-tale creatures of myth and legend. For some reason, the dainty wings of a pixie held my attention well. Often I could find myself being lost in the scales of a siren’s fin. Such magic was held in the stories of elves and of griffons. Even if I tried, I could never quite get myself to draw anything else. I found more comfort in the stories these worlds could hold than I ever found in any the material world did. This piece by far surpassed the rest, though. It was a sylph - a creature in legend depicted with large, white feathered wings. Akin to an angel, I suppose, though I’d never seen either in person, so one could only assume. The one I placed on paper was radiant. Her hair was golden, cascading in waves over warm-olive skin. She seemed to emit rays of pure light - practically glowing off the page. The woman’s eyes were comprised of layers of sea-moss green and crisp, sky-blue. They held oceans of mysticism within their depths. Her lips and cheeks hued with the same dusty, peach-rose. Both were plump and filled with life, and a tad playful to say the least. Though she was clearly a divine being, and pure in love and light, she had a slight grin pulling up the corners of her mouth. She looked as though she had perhaps just played a prank on her lover. Perhaps she was giggling at their response. But her actions were never of malice. She was clothed in white - a robe, almost. It was a tad reminiscent of Grecian clothing in the ancient times. The front tied closed with a golden, chord-rope. Tassels, in a way, which had two single, crystal beads at the end of each strand. She was immensely elegant, but not at all gaudy. A perfect image of natural beauty, grace, and purity. Often my process in drawing was the same. All my pieces seemed to come from some deep recess of my mind. I never began to sketch with a full concept in mind. It could be that I knew I’d want to illustrate a mermaid. Or sometimes it could be that I knew the piece would be dark in nature. But the art always flowed from me like water. It was never forced - never planned or premeditated. But this piece was even more filled with soul than any others I’d ever made. I wasn’t going to present her. I was going to keep her hidden away inside my home, so that only I could gaze upon her beauty. I was going to contain her light, so that it may keep my life more playful or joyful. But as I sat and stared, the drawing seemed to dim. I began to feel guilty. A drawing she was, yes. But, even if others couldn’t view her the same way I did, I believed she was a sight to behold. It was almost as if I had created some sort of being. A divine, and beautiful one of that. A muse. Who was I to decide who would get to gaze upon her beauty? If she could bring anyone else even an ounce of what her image brought me, I thought she deserved a chance to shine. So, I didn’t care about the critics. I didn’t care about reviews, positive or poor. I didn’t care if they thought she was ‘pretty’. I knew she would make them feel something.

I entered an art contest. I decided to make a Santa sculpture since it is the holiday season. I thought it turned out amazing. But, i was little anxious about my competition. I was against some of the best artists Ariana, Emily, John , and Braden. The contest was 12/23. I only have 2 more days left to add details. I made the beard a little fluffier and longer, and by the time i was done doing that it was the day of the contest. I was so nervous. Eventually it was my turn. Everyone else’s was so good. Ariana made a snowman, Emily made a snow wolf, John made an ice monster, and Braden made a yeti. I guess we all hade the same thoughts. When i presented everyone started clapping. I was shocked. I guess everyone really did love my Santa design. When everyone finished showing their artwork they announced the winners. Somehow, i made it first place! Braden in second, and Emily in third.

I was definitely the most talented artist here. Looking at the other paintings, they didn’t stand a change. Some children had drawn flowers, some pieces of candy. Pathetic. Here comes the judges. It seemed they were playing soft this year, judging these kids with high scores. But no matter how high they scored them, I would do better.

“Laura Clark?” One of the judges, the red head, said.

“Yes?” I looked hopefully at them.

“Step aside.” The red head snapped.

I flinched, but obeyed. I could feel my cheeks growing hot with embarrassment as the judges looked over my piece. It was a painting of a girl. She had delicate, pale skin, deep brown eyes, her hair was painted into perfect strands of golden curls.

“It is beautiful.” A judge murmured, a different one, brown hair, I noticed he had olive skin, maybe a mix of brown.

I shuffled my feet nervously, they murmured inaudible things and wrote them down on their large, rectangular clipboards.

                     •••••••••••••

I sat with the other children, all awaiting the results. They looked nervous, many of them had stopped to look at my painting. That felt nice, I was going to win for sure.

“Okay the results are in.” The red head judge spoke, “Third place, Jenny Sanderson!”

Jenny, a little girl in a bright green dress walked up, receiving her medal.

“Second place, Olivia Shay!”

Olivia did the same as Jenny, her blonde hair curled.

“And first place goes to…..

It’s been 16 minutes since i’ve presented my piece. Obviously i would’ve liked to have done better, considering i stumbled over a couple words caught up in the glaring eyes of hundreds before me, sadly then leading into a little breakdown which Kris would call a “moderate exaggeration”. Kris is my partner in the studio and a long time friend, though we’ve been through some rough patches over the course of this project. She should be arriving soon, something about a transit delay. I hope she at least gets here before the judges announce the best piece. There was one guy after me in the show, and let me tell you it was a bizarre presentation to witness. Though the actual artwork itself, i would say resembles a simple yet modern children’s play set, and probably wouldn’t have required too much skill if i’m being honest. However, the audacious amount of metaphors he’d go on to explain within the details of the art piece didn’t fail one bit, as far as captivating the audience goes. Oh and the judges, so prestigious with their scarves and hipster haircuts, I couldn’t get close to a single read on them through their pretentious masks. bzz bzz Kris is here, right on time, i’m gonna go get her from the back. The nerves have settled down thankfully, though I gotta say not too many of these artists here have presented detailed pieces, I mean sure their presentations have done way better than mine, except that one guy who kept sneezing, allergies, what’re you gonna do. I get to the door and upon opening I find no one there. I take one step and lean forward to check an- “HOLY SHIT KRIS YOU FUCKI-“ “Hey Mark, how’s the show?” she said “Kris, you scared the shit out of me. Let’s get back before the judges make the announcement” Heading back inside, I can see she’s had a rough day. The empty stare, bad posture, the fake smile which I assume is for the occasion. I mean when Kris works for me, i’d think it’s not that hard a job; (ideas, cleaning brushes, food) but surviving on that pay check alone in New York City, while also trying to support a younger sibling, means she must use her time to work. We stop by a vending machine to get a drink. “How you holding up?” I said, snapping her into focus. “Well, tired to be honest, i’ve had 4 returns on broken sculptures today and Jeremy needed me to take him to the dentist, and worst than that i missed your whole presentation, so you gotta tell me, how was it?” “It was…. a learning experience to say the least. Though their art may not have been the most skillfully done, they drew everyone in with their presentations, for the most part. So who knows, maybe we got a shot maybe we don’t” I said humbly. “Well we better go find out, hurry up punk i’ll race you there” and she took off. “GET BACK HERE!” I yelled, chasing her like a crazed maniac. We arrive laughing behind the curtains, turning to see all of the pieces out out on the stage before us. Looking now, I can boldly say that my work is the best one there, it has to be. Look at the brush strokes, the detail on each leaf as the colours blend them together revealing bodies in the negative space. The texture of the crunch within the leaves, or the cloudy ethereal essence of the bodies between. A piece with good character and heart, hours and hours of thinking breathing FEELING this painting, and even if i don’t win this stupid thing, i’ll still know how great this painting is simply by the effort and love that was put into it. “Me along with the rest of our judges, have come to a unanimous decision” the judge wearing the fuzzy hat states. Anxiously i await. “The winner of New York City’s Covenant Art Show 2019 is Mark Wildro’s ‘Autumn’”

Dear diary,

I knew they could do it!

I had been working on a painting for weeks! It was for the biggest art competition at school the whole year. For the competition I had no painted the most beautiful painting I had ever done! The art had at be based off something. So obviously I based it off my dog..More like I did my dog!

The date was 11/12/21 The day we showed and presented our art! When it was my turn I stood up got out of my seat and explained what I drew! I think I said something like “ I love my dog! So I drew him “. But probably with way more details..or I hope so!

As I sat down I was sweating I had not really prepared anything so I was not really sure what to say! But I did my best and I know I am gonna do great!

“ The judges have decided on the winners “ Said Mr.Moore “ 3rd place Olivia tanner “ To be honest she looked like she was about to cry. “ 2nd place, Darcy brown “ I could not believe I got second place. My art was the best one there! “ and 1st place, Alexis Williams “ Not only did I get 2nd but ALEXIS WILLAMS got first…she told me that she did her whole project last night.

I could not believe that moment.