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.