The Grand Artist

The Artist was alone. He scanned around the workshop and almost immediately spotted a few old rolls of canvas lying at the far east end. He wrenched them out and carefully unwrapped them. The dried pieces of unevenly cut linen weave in His hands were pale and covered in dust. He knew their time had come.

He gently mounted the first piece of blank canvas on His easel and stared at it for a brief moment. He thought about the futility of the canvas. Of how meaningless and ineffective it was. Of how helplessly inept it would have continued to be if He hadn’t opened it up today. He considered, for a moment, that He didn’t really need the canvas at all. He could do without it. But, today… “Today”, he whispered to Himself under His breath, “Today, I’ll attempt to make beauty ever so slightly tangible”.

He smiled to Himself at the thought of beauty, of how ethereal it was. He chuckled at the challenge before Him and pulled out a brush from His Cloak.

His first stroke was a shade of tangerine. It smudged across the canvas and He knew it had come alive. The tangerine spread across the canvas and turned into shades of rust and mahogany. Bright bursts of mustard yellow sprung from the orange and leapt across the white spaces. As the canvas slowly emerged into a vivacious blend of hues, a shining gold ball of colour birthed in the heart of this sea of orange tints. The gold circle spewed hues of saffron liberally. The Artist was pleased.

He hadn’t even named this stunning, glowing, picturesque blend of amber hues before He found Himself making a second stroke. A small gentle caress across the tawny splurge before Him. A new streak appeared across the sheet. At first, it was a subtle shade of blue that slowly trickled it’s way evenly across the ginger expanse. Every shade of ochre submitted to this slow invasion of sapphire softness that enveloped the entirety of the canvas. The Artist’s face beamed with a grin of satisfaction. He knew that this clear azure tone would be the most desired colour on this canvas. He watched as the turquoise grandeur before Him subtly emitted soft cushions of mellow grey and white. Broad sections radiant royal cerulean shades swept across the stretch of material.

The Artist wasn’t surprised, but He was content. He almost stopped, but there was another stroke that had to be made. The last one. The necessary one. He grazed His brush across the canvas and a huge drop of dark violet stained the pure cobalt serenity. It crept stealthily inching towards each corner transforming every bit of the expanse into a deep purple. The Artist saw that there was too much darkness and splattered His brush across the sheet. Little tiny drops of white light burgeoned across the blackness. The beauty of this polka-dotted design almost brought a tear to His Eye.

He shook His head in quick realisation that if there were no black, there’d be no looking forward to the crimson and the blue. He looked at the masterpiece before Him. Shades of colours that He only knew to exist inside of Him were now across the extent of this canvas. He knew this beauty had to be shared. These colours had to be witnessed. The hues had to be experienced.

He gently held the skies in His Hands and walked outside the workshop. It was time to let somebody have this exquisite piece of work.

He looked inside Himself and said, “Let Us make man in Our Image.”