Pomegranate

by Trevor Worthey

In front of the easel lay all the necessary supplies.

The paper bore a rough depiction of the scene before her. The general outline of an oakwood table in a kitchen, a black marble counter-top, a full-door cabinet—and one window, propped half-open to reveal a cherry tree outside. It was all the final product of a meticulous sketch. Each line was measured. Every shade was matched to perfection. In its center, something was missing—a void in the table, an absent fruit, waiting to become manifest.

The artist picked up a brush—a red one with white bristles—and some burgundy paint. The bristles bent to form a dark circle in the middle of the table. She was careful to keep a patch for where the light gleamed against its surface. Her strokes grew outward; quickly she had a sphere bulging from the paper. She gave it a short, stalky end, protruding bluntly from its side. The angle of the stem gave it an earthly appearance; tilted to one side for all the sun to hit.

She began to experiment with the colors. Add some more magenta; deepen one side – the one in shadow. Her motions became precise; she calculated every mark. A little brown smear described a blemish on the skin. Some deep blotches, some light—for texture. Reality.

She rounded edges and chopped off others, being careful to grow slowly outwards at a precise rate. She assessed, lay the brush aside, and took up another, it’s white bristles new and untainted. A thick daub of black paint came onto it; she wiped some color onto a palette, near her magenta. Light’s absence soon became clear. One end quickly grew dark, like a forest after a sunset. She swirled the colors together, gave it a tinge of red that was only noticeable to the artist—to the subconscious mind.

Then she did something odd with the light. Instead of making the light come from the window, where in reality it emanated, she made it wrap around to the fore, slanting so that the crown of the fruit was in shadow—and the base in radiance. The contrast was smoothly blended, from top to bottom. There was light where there shouldn’t be.

Each time the artist brought her colors to the paper, she exuded the image of creation. Manipulating her world to the whim of an original. Colors swirling about at her command. She gave the world light and shadow—she gave it grain and aberration. Where her hand moved, inanimate things sprang to life.

And if such a goddess, only in front of an easel. There lay all the necessary supplies to be great.

Visit the Library Home Page                                                       Read the latest Library news in The Circulator