“I’ll be right back with an easel,” he says after he finishes arranging the props.
They’re having me paint a still life, I realize.Perfect. I’ve been painting those for years.
My heart rate slows a fraction as I sit.
When Daniel returns, he places the easel to my left and provides me with a two-by-three-foot blank canvas. “Sorry for the lack of preparation on our part. Inviting you for a mid-semester audition was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
I flick my wrist at his apology. “Oh, it’s fine.”
He straightens and backs a few steps away, hands on his hips. “You’ll have four hours to paint the scene you see before you. We’ll take a short break two hours in if you need it.”
I nod, mostly because my throat’s too tight to speak.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks, eyes narrowing behind thick-rimmed glasses.
I clear my throat before muttering a barely audible, “No.”
Daniel gestures once more to the canvas. “Then feel free to begin.”
I take a deep breath and look at the table.I can do this. Iwilldo this.
The small scene set before me is beautiful. The turquoise fabric is probably satin, or maybe silk. It reflects the midday light splendidly, reminding me of the ocean. At the right angle, it almost looks as if it’s sparkling. An apple sits in the middle, plump and ruby-red with a slight imperfection on its skin near the stem, as if it might’ve been bruised there. The banana next to it is green and underripe, its sickle shape curling around the apple. Next is a small orange, its color dull, likely from being harvested out of season.
So many imperfections. So much beauty.
Now utterly focused, I barely notice when Daniel moves to sit in one of the chairs in the corner. I open all my totes and silently assess the materials I brought with me. After pulling out my favorite brushes, I arrange all of the necessary colors on my palette. Opting for oil paint today, I use turpentine to dilute the different paints to my desired consistency. It releases a strong, pungent scent into the air, but I’ve grown so used to it over the years, it no longer bothers me.
When I’m prepped and ready, I return my gaze to the props on the table. Before I begin, I need to ensure my painting will have a good composition. Typically, the ideal composition includes three elements: an overall theme, natural flow, and the ability to draw the viewer’s gaze to the main subject.
So, what’s my main subject here? What draws my attention the most?
I cock my head to the side, assessing the scene at a different angle. I raise my pencil to hover in the air before me and use it to measure the relative shapes of the fruit.
The apple, I decide.The apple will be my main subject.
Now, time to evaluate for flow. Most great paintings involve five fundamental geometric shapes. Here, the apple and orange will serve as the circle, and the silky fabric as the elusive S shape. The table will serve as the square, and the edges of the fabric could serve as triangles at the right angle.The only shape I’m missing now is the X.My gaze flits around the scene once more before settling on the imperfection on the apple.That’s it.
I put my pencil to the canvas and begin to sketch. Sweat beads on my brow as I work. I think of Phantom as I do. What would they focus on highlightinghere? What theme would they choose? What would bring them inspiration? I like to think their artistic choices would be similar to mine, but sadly, there’s no real wayof knowing that, so I push onward, leaning on my own creativity to guide me instead.
Using my pencil for reference, I measure the relative size of the subjects again. Once I’m happy with the sketch, I pick up my palette and brush. Before dipping my brush into the paint, I quickly reevaluate the original colors I chose. Some of them won’t do after all. I wipe them off my palette with an old paint-stained rag and start again, squirting and mixing new color combinations.
I’ll use color to draw my viewers’ attention to the apple. Its red will be the most vibrant, almost as if it’s jumping off the canvas, attracting the viewer’s eye like a moth to a flame. With the realization, I’m immensely grateful I remembered to bring my favorite shade of vermillion today.
The corners of my mouth twist upward as I begin to paint. Nothing will ever compare to this rush. It’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, being this vulnerable. Giving your viewers unrestricted access into the inner workings of your mind. Letting them see the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Once my first layer of paint is down and drying, I work on filling in the background, playing with different shades and hues to bring attention to the light in the room, inviting the viewer’s gaze to roam around the entire painting after taking in the main subject. I play with shadows and highlight a few places where light is reflected.
I can’t help the flash of annoyance that flares when Daniel interrupts, asking if I would like to take a break.
“No, thank you,” I reply, more curtly than I mean to, before diving back into my work.
I return to the focal point of the painting, adding a second layer of paint to further illustrate the imperfections. The scar on the apple, the immaturity of the banana, the sickly pallor of the orange.
By the time I’m applying the finishing touches, my arm aches and my neck throbs, but I’m satisfied with my work. The theme I chose is perfect for the scene laid out before me.
To me, imperfection means individuality. If perfection was actually achievable, we’d all be striving for the same thing, aiming toward one singular outcome, instead of honoring our differences. In that dystopia, we’d be an army of clones. And where the fuck is the beauty in that? No. Individuality is beautiful. Imperfection is beautiful. And that’s what I hope my viewer sees within this painting. This apple is vastly more charming because of its scar, the banana more resilient because of its prematurity, and the orange far grittier because it was grown out of season.
The theme? An ode to individuality.
