“Who’s the man that you keep sketching every week in the studio?” inquired Madeline. Her father had recently took to portraiture drawing after a decade long hiatus in the arts.
“This is my old college roommate Dan. He made a bet that I couldn’t remember his face after all these years so I accepted the challenge… Ten portraits over several weeks depicting his ugly mug under the best of all possible lights!”
“Heheh, do you plan on showing these beautiful caricatures to his wife? She’ll be the best of judges” grinned Maddy with a devilish eye.
“Even better. I’m going to put them on exhibit and invite the two over. The expo will be called Recollections of a Wanted Man.”
Among the riches that gleamed and spoke,
Charcoal failed to shimmer but smoke.
Hidden within that rough of gems,
It breathed fire and warmed cold dens.
Why so glum? You serve a fine purpose,
But Charcoal no longer wished to feed a furnace.
So it threw itself against grain and sand,
And found itself an artist’s hand.
Charcoal made only one request,
Give me a subject so I can express.
The artist grinned.
The first stroke fell on air, cutting an ocean from out of the sky.
The second stroke tore across water, carving a shoreline without beginning and end.
The third stroke sculpted the earth, arranging forms from an infinite variety.
The fourth stroke ignited into fire, imbuing spirits with movement and life.
The final stroke pierced through time, resetting the world for a new brush to try.