The Painting *Short Story*

“Of all the paintings I have ever seen, this one is my favorite.”  The man said.  He was looking at a peculiar painting in the local library art gallery. 

“I’ll take it.” He says with his arm on his chin.  “Whose the artist?”

“A young woman, Wilma.”

He studied it even harder.  The brush strokes, the colors, the shades, they all seemed like they were painted out of chaos, no plaining or system, just paint on a canvas, but it looked so familiar, as if it was from a dream we all share.

“What is it called?”

“All the beautiful things.”

The man paused.  He wondered what that might be.  The picture had no form of any kind, there were no objects. It is a beautiful painting but what was she showing us?

Just then, Wilma walked up behind them. “You like my work?” She asked confidently with a smirk.

“Yes, I do. I was just trying to figure out what the beautiful things are in your painting. Are they feelings, sensations?”

Wilma smiled coyly. “No.” She said it sounded as sweet as spring.

The man stood puzzled. The art manager bowed out smiling. “I’ll leave it to you to explain it to him.”

“What do you see?” Wilma asked.

“A painting?”

“Look deeper.”

He studied the hues and shapes, they started to speak to him in unexplained ways.  There were no words, no sensations but a message was received.

“I-I can’t explain it.” He said. “It’s like I’ve been here before.”

“Because you have.” Her voice sounded like her painting would if it could speak.

Then he started getting angry and his face started turning red. Wilma noticed.

“So I see it’s working.” She spoke.

“What the hell are you talking about? What is this painting and this mind game you’re playing?” He was almost fuming.

“The painting you see is  intentional, every stroke although it has an image of chaos and disorder.  Everything is right where it needs to be with no orginization. It is both pyschologically, emotionally and spiritually stimulating. It pulls you in to a point where you either have one or two reactions.  Either one, you feel calm and happy. Or two, you get angry, sad or depressed. It all depends on where you’re at.”

“With what?”

“Forgiveness.” She said quickly without looking away from the painting.

“I have no body to forgive.” He said annoyed.

“This is not a painting to stimulate anyone other than the person looking at it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“The person you have not forgiven is yourself. Thats what the painting brings you to.  The image of a truthful, accepted person in their own power.  If you forgive yourself it is a happy reminder.  If you haven’t it’s painful.”

“What do you feel?”

Wilma takes a deep breath. “Pretty pissed.” She laughes. “Then I realized it was right, my soul was trying to show me something and I did it.”

“That’s not an easy thing to do.”

Wilma gave  him an exahusted look.  “If I have to tell you nothing worth having is ever easy, I am concerned. You  don’t get gold medals, millions of dollars and the love of your life for easy.”

He shrugged, “It was nice to meet you.” He said smiling. “I’m going to go place an offer.”

Wilma smiled back politely at him. Then she turned, sat in a chair in the corner reading a newspaper, awaiting her next observer.