The Artist And The Canvas

One day, the Artist decided to paint a portrait of himself. He went into his studio and, after searching for just the right-sized canvas, found it leaning up against a wall, hidden from view behind a dusty stack of odds and ends. The dirt, and stains, and rents in the canvas indicated it had been in the studio, unused, for quite some time. But it was the size the Artist wanted, and was unpainted, and, under the restorative powers of the Artist, could be made perfectly usable.

Blowing the dust from the surface of the canvas, the Artist set it on the studio worktable where he had made and repaired many canvases, upon each of them painting a self-portrait (he never painted anything else, you see, though no two portraits were ever exactly alike). Turning from the canvas, the Artist gathered up the tools necessary to repair it, placed them neatly alongside the canvas, and then, rubbing his hands together, considered where to begin. Before anything else, he decided, a closer inspection of the canvas was necessary.

As the Artist’s hands reached for the canvas, however, a sour, cartoonish face appeared on its surface, from the lips of which burst a loud “No!” Arms and legs sprouted from the frame of the canvas, then the canvas leapt to its feet and skipped back from the Artist, darting dark, mistrustful looks his way. “What do you think you’re doing?! What is it you intend?” The canvas halted its retreat at a distance it felt was safe from the large figure looming over him and, hands on its frame, elbows jutting out, glared fiercely.

“I mean to paint myself upon you,” the Artist said in a tone that suggested he was stating the obvious and that nothing should be more expected and right.

“Is that so?” the canvas retorted. “Have you consulted me? No. What about what I have to say? Maybe I prefer to remain as I am!”

“Do you?” the Artist said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Do you prefer your torn, soiled condition, unused and unusable? Would you rather I put you back behind all that junk, hidden and dirty, doing nothing?”

The canvas began to sweep itself off with its hands, trying to remove some of the accumulated grime. “Well…no, I suppose not. But --” The canvas attempted to get a look at its back side without success, spinning in place like a dog after its tail, both of its cartoon eyes crowded over to one side of its surface, wide and straining, trying to catch a glimpse of the state of its posterior. After a moment, the canvas stopped and clenched its fists in frustration, again glaring hard at the Artist. “Gah!” it sputtered, “What are you looking at?”

The Artist leaned forward, his kind, smiling face lowering to the level of the canvas, “I can make you white as snow. Entirely free of stain and dust, your holes and tears repaired. And then, I can use you to bear a painting of myself, which is just what I made you for!”

“Are you suggesting I’m unclean?” the canvas gasped, its voice rising, and drew back into a very dramatic – and very offended – pose. “Well, I never!” it protested, its voice rising higher still. I’m merely…well-aged; I have character; I bear the scars of wisdom and experience.” The canvas sniffed airily, one hand held against its chest, the other bunched into a fist at the end of an arm stiffly thrust behind it, his legs arranged in the stance of a sword-fencer.

Laughter tumbled from the Artist for several long moments. When it subsided, a serious expression settled upon the Artist’s face. He wiped his eyes and nose with a red-and-white checkered kerchief drawn from the pocket of his pants, then leaned down again, bringing his face near to his affronted companion. “You’re very amusing, but you are also lying to yourself which always leads to terrible trouble. I say you are dirty and damaged and of no use as you are. Do you deny that this is so?”

The canvas relaxed his pose and began to look about uncomfortably, as though he had been caught doing something wretched. I…that is to say…I…well, now, will you shame a fellow? I’m not what I once was but I’m not as bad as all that. I’ve got my good points.”

The Artist straightened, folding his arms across his chest, and said, “Oh?”

The canvas coughed, a heavy-lidded expression forming on its face, and responded, “Well, I’ve got four corners. Very fine corners, I might add. Perfect right angles, in fact. I’m exactly square which is an admirable thing, I think.” The canvas pivoted in place, displaying his squareness from every angle, then glanced up at the Artist. “I see you are not impressed. Do you have four perfect right angles on you? I think not.”

“Your geometry is…interesting. The perfection and number of your angles, however, is my doing, not yours. I made you, after all, did I not? Should you congratulate yourself for something I did?”

Circling its mouth in a disconcerting way, the eyes of the canvas bounced clockwise to each corner of its frame, examining them briefly, then returned to their proper place over its mouth. The canvas fixed the Artist with a blank stare and muttered unhappily, “They are my corners – even if you did make them.”

“Is that it? Besides these four – “ the Artist tapped a finger on each of the canvas’s corners “ - have you any other good points?”

“Please! Keep your finger to yourself!” the canvas protested shrilly, flailing impotently at the Artist’s prodding digit. Dashing out of reach of the Artist’s finger, the canvas halted, its back to the Artist, and began to rummage its mind furiously for some other praiseworthy characteristic it possessed, its face a knot of concentration. “Um, well, let’s see…I, um, I’m…flat. Yes, flat!” Spinning to face the Artist, the canvas toppled over onto its back. “I can be perfectly flat on the horizontal – no peaks or valleys – if I want, or – the canvas jumped to its feet - quite flat on the vertical, too, without the slightest surface contour whatever.” Its hand slid, surreptitiously, over a small dent near its edge. “I have well-defined and utterly uncomplicated height and width. I don’t have to fuss with the tedious complexity of depth. I have no depth at all, really! I’m marvelously simple.”

Nodding his head, the Artist grinned and replied, “Yes, I can see that.”

The canvas looked sharply at the Artist, feeling this unexpected agreement was thoroughly disagreeable. It was evident to the canvas that the Artist remained quite unmoved by its short inventory of unremarkable qualities. In fact, the more the canvas sang its own praises, the more foolish and pathetic it felt. Stiffly, eyes cast down, the canvas admitted, “I suppose I am not so great as some. But, still, I am not so awful as others.”

“Comparing yourself to the worst is much easier than comparing yourself to the best,” the Artist observed in a bemused tone. “A man on a raft of rotting logs may sneer at a fellow treading water, but feels pretty shabby in the shadow of a passing cruise ship.”

“Well, why should I care what you think, anyway?” the canvas groused unpleasantly, “I’m quite content with how I am and that’s all that matters!”

“Is it?” the Artist said, in an ominous murmur. “Does it matter what you think? What about what I think? The One who made you?”

“That is an unfair question!” the canvas blurted out, “I did not ask you to make me! You didn’t consult me about being made into a painter’s canvas!”

“And how would I have consulted you before your making?”

“I, uh…, hmmm…, well, you could have…” The speech of the canvas trailed off into silence as it searched its thoughts fruitlessly for a sensible answer. Idly, its hand scratched at its non-existent chin. The eyes of the canvas danced from side to side, looking for inspiration at the cluttered, cozy studio filled with paintings, wood frames, various tools, paints, brushes and rags. Through a window, a shaft of sunlight shone, a golden pillar, bright motes of dust swirling lazily through it. Smells of paint thinner and varnish mixed with the odors of toast and coffee, an odd olfactory concoction.

None of this helped the canvas arrive at a suitable reply to the Artist’s question. And the more the canvas searched for a clever retort, the more petulant and unreasoning it felt itself to be. Finally, grudgingly, the canvas said, “All right. You’ve got me there. That was a rather stupid objection. But, look here, why should I have to do as you want? It isn’t fair!”

The Artist, seated now on a stool, elbows resting on the worktable, face in his hands, looked at the canvas very seriously and said, “While you cannot be other than I made you to be, you can choose if you will do what I want you to do. But, if I cannot use you as I made you to be used, what use are you, then? Should I keep a useless canvas in my studio?”

Alarmed by these questions, the canvas took several steps toward the Artist, its arms raised before it, hands waving in a placating manner. “Now, let’s not be hasty! I haven’t made any decision just yet. Tell me: What would you do with me, if I refused to let you paint your portrait upon me?”

The Artist rose from the stool, moved to a nearby shelf and from it took down a can of paintbrushes. He began to examine them, one by one, and as he did, he asked, “What do you think I should do with a you?”

“I could tidy your studio!”

“I have a broom for that purpose and my own two hands.”

“How about an inventory of your studio? I could do that. And sell your portraits for you, too!”

“My portraits aren’t for sale. They are all enormously precious to me and I will lose not a one. And I know all that is in my own studio. I have no need, then, of taking an inventory.”

The canvas stomped to the edge of the worktable top, fists clenched at its sides, and cried angrily, “Well, there must be something I can do!”

Standing now by the window of the studio, sipping his coffee, the Artist replied quietly, “Yes, there is. What I made you to do: Bear my image.”

Stalking away from the edge of the worktable, the canvas waddled to a large tube of paint and sat upon it, thumping a heel against it in frustration, over and over. “I want meaning! I want to have a grand purpose! To really be something!” it declared. “I could make for myself whatever meaning I wished, couldn’t I? I’ve always wanted to be an artist. Just like you. Maybe paint my own image on a canvas.”

Abruptly, coffee spewed from the Artist’s mouth. Red-faced, shaking in silent mirth, he bent forward, wiping with his hand at the coffee dripping from his chin.

“What’s so funny?” said the canvas, standing suddenly to its feet. “Laugh at a canvas’s dream, will you? Cruel! Unfeeling! That’s what you are!” Wheeling about, the canvas swung a foot at the tube of paint, kicking it hard. “Oh! Ow! Ah!” It fell over backwards, clutching its foot with both hands, hissing in pain.

Quietly, the Artist busied himself with various tasks around the studio until the canvas had recovered from its injury. After several minutes of noisy drama, the canvas stood up, its foot swollen like a balloon, and called out to the Artist, “I should like an answer to my question, sir. What’s so funny about wanting to paint my own image on a canvas?”

From behind a high pile of framing wood, the muffled voice of the Artist replied, “You would paint a canvas on a canvas? That’s rather like knitting a ball of yarn into a ball of yarn, don’t you think?”

The canvas struggled to untangle the Artist’s meaning, screwing up his face again in thought. “Oh. I see,” he said finally, bafflement still evident in his expression. “Anyway, I want to make my own meaning. And why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it isn’t what I made you for,” the Artist replied, walking up to the worktable, carrying a can of solvent, and a handful of rags. He placed them on the worktable and sat again on the stool. “Would you sew a dress with a hammer? Would you milk a cow with a saxophone?”

Not having a wide experience of the world, the canvas didn’t know what a saxophone was, but it didn’t sound like an appropriate implement for milking. “Well, no,” the canvas admitted, “But you could use a hammer for purposes besides driving and pulling nails.” (Unwilling to appear ignorant, the canvas made no comment about the mysterious “saxophone” which he suspected didn’t really exist.)

“Yes, but it works best in the way it was made to work, does it not?”

The canvas looked in annoyance at the Artist, brows furrowed low over its eyes, “Fine. It would. I admit your point.”

“And what of a meaning you give yourself? Is it not an illusion, a fantasy, that obscures and distracts from real meaning found in being what I made you to be? In following your will, you set yourself against mine. Do you have the right to do so? Is your will greater than mine, the one who made you and in whose studio you reside?”

“If you didn’t want me to follow my own way, why did you give me the ability to do so?” the canvas grumbled, standing now at the edge of the worktable, looking down at the floor. Unnerved by the height, the canvas moved back carefully from the edge.

The canvas’s antics prompted a grin from the Artist. “I want a friend in you, not a puppet, a loving, willing bearer of my image, not a robot. In making this possible, I cannot avoid making it possible that you might choose not to be what I desire. If you are truly free to choose me, you must also be truly free not to choose me. But, your free choices have consequences.”

Being without depth, this was a lot of information for the canvas to absorb. One thing stood out to it, however: “Consequences?” it asked. “What do you mean? What will happen if I choose my own way?”

“Before and above all, we cannot be friends. In defying my will, you make yourself my enemy, you see.”

“Your enemy? Goodness!” This seemed a very dangerous prospect to the canvas, who, being painted entirely white, was unable to pale further in fright. “I don’t mean to be your enemy. I just want my own way!”

“You can have your own way. But not without consequences. Every choice one makes has consequences. Even for me. And your choice to defy my will, to rebel against the purpose for which I made you, carries the consequence of making you my enemy.”

Wide-eyed, the canvas stood very still, and asked in a tiny, anxious voice, “And what do you do with your enemies?”

“I always try to persuade them to my way. I love all of my canvases and urge them to trust me. But, I am the Artist, not a canvas. If a canvas does not want me as the Artist that I am and rejects the purpose for which I made it, I will cast it out.”

In an even smaller voice, its eyes enormous, the canvas squeaked, “Cast it out?”

“There is no dwelling in my studio, made by my hands but not acting in accord with my will. It is my prerogative as the Artist, your maker, to have it so. Besides, if you are so set against doing as I wish, why would you want to remain with me? Would you not prefer to be in a place where I am not?”

The canvas drew its hand across its brow, its eyes closed, mouth pinched. “That seems very…drastic,” it said unhappily. “We cannot both have our way?”

“No,” the Artist replied, his voice somber and, again, a little dangerous, “You cannot.”

Arms folded across his chest, the Artist watched the canvas watching him. They remained this way for a long moment, silently observing one another, until the canvas began to feel he was in a staring match. Uncomfortable at the thought, the canvas looked away, asking, “What would it be like to be painted by you?” then turned and limped over to some brushes laying to one side of the worktable. The canvas sniffed the bristles of one brush, giving them a quick lick, pausing for a moment to consider the flavour, then slid its hand along the handle of another brush. “Not the best brushes, I think, but they will do,” it remarked in a pompous tone.

Smiling, the Artist answered, “It would be wonderful, of course. You would bear my image. And doing so would be completely fulfilling, as it always is to serve the purpose for which one exists. You’ve been going about in an unfinished state, you know. It was never my intention that you should remain a blank canvas. It is time for you to be fully what I meant you to be. Trust me. You will delight in what I will make of you.”

“My stains, and dents, and tears will be fixed?” the canvas inquired, wiping absently at one of the larger, more evident blemishes on its surface, a look of longing and hope on its face.

“Of course. You must be clean and repaired, a canvas upon which I may be seen clearly.” The Artist bent over, lowering his face so that it was very near the canvas, and said, “Shall I begin?”

Eyeing the very large, very near, nose of the Artist, the canvas, leaning backward, remarked, “It occurs to me that you are very…big. Quite powerful, I think, too. You could break me apart in an instant, if you wished.” The canvas took several steps away from the Artist’s face, feeling that, however pleasant and patient the Artist had been, he was far, far more powerful than the canvas and, in this respect, really very threatening. In light of this disturbing rumination, keeping some distance from the Artist seemed prudent. Besides, being so close, the Artist entirely filled the canvas’s view, blocking out everything else. The Artist’s eyes, huge and bright, seemed to go on forever, bottomless wells of knowledge and power that frightened the canvas – though, there was great love and joy in them, too. (Which, for a brief moment, made the canvas’s heart soar.) It was odd, confusing, to be both frightened and uplifted at the same time by the same thing.

“You make me feel quite peculiar!” the canvas confessed in a breathless tone. “I wonder if I can trust you! What assurances can you give me that I will really like bearing your portrait?”

Once again, the Artist laughed, a hearty laugh from the belly, then declared, very loudly, “None at all! Except my word that you will. As I said, knowing what you do about me, you will have to decide whether or not to trust me.” The Artist chuckled, then, taking a sip from his coffee mug, added, “Not until you actually sit in a chair can you ever really know that it will hold you up.”

“The chair may hold me up, but will I like sitting in it?” the canvas said, a bit petulantly. “I – ”

The Artist set his coffee mug down and bending over, brought his face level with the canvas once more. “Now you are dithering. Enough. Make your decision. Will you bear my image or not?”

It had arrived, finally, the moment of decision that would - one way or another - change the life of the canvas forever. The eyes of the canvas darted wildly back-and-forth across its surface. “I…I…this is so…tremendous! Tremendous!” It drummed pensively on its surface with its hands, making its face vibrate out of place, sideways. Then, jumping up and down with tension, the canvas cried out, “What do I do?!”

“Trust me,” said the Artist, smiling gently, his hand extended to the canvas.

The canvas sighed heavily, looked pensively at the Artist and said, “All right. I will. But on one condition –“

“No.”

Startled, the canvas froze, like a rabbit as the wolf stalks past. “No? What do you mean? I would like –”

“You misunderstand the state of affairs between us, my little, flat friend,” the Artist interrupted. “You have no position from which to demand conditions.”

Surprised, the canvas stammered, “But-but-but don’t you want me to – “

“I would love to paint myself upon you, but I don’t need to. If you will not bear my image, it doesn’t diminish me in the least. I paint because I want to paint, not because I must. So, then, if you will not deal with me my way, you cannot deal with me at all. I don’t follow your lead; you follow mine. As I said, I am not a canvas; you are not my equal. There is no bargaining. Just my will, take it or leave it.”

The Artist said this in a kind but straightforward, matter-of-fact way, that, to the canvas, sounded bemused rather than challenging. But the Artist’s words struck the canvas at its core, kicking its pride hard on the shins. It realized suddenly it had thought itself more or less the Artist’s peer, an equal, who had a say in how its existence ought to be and the right to do so. Not until this moment had it understood just how much at the mercy of the Artist it was, how truly and greatly unequal their relationship.

There was nothing the Artist needed that the canvas could supply. There were a multitude of other canvases lying all about the studio, most of which were quite undamaged, ready to be painted.

A glimmer of the kindness and patience of the Artist suddenly penetrated the pride and self-will of the canvas. Why had the Artist talked with it at all? Why take it from its forgotten spot against the wall, dusty and damaged, and offer to paint Himself upon such a beat-up canvas? And why spend all this time trying to persuade the canvas to be what the Artist had made it to be? The glimmer became a warm glow, revealing more clearly the foolishness of the canvas and the goodness of the Artist. The revelation was humiliating and a joyful wonder all at once.

A look of astonishment and gratefulness suffused the canvas’s expression and, dropping to hands and knees, the canvas cried out, “I see! And I am ashamed and delighted together! What a marvelous Person you are, dear Artist!”

Smiling broadly, the Artist asked again, “Will you trust me? May I paint myself upon you, my friend?”

“But why? Why would you bother? I am so much…less than I should be. And so vain and defiant!” Bent over on hands and knees, the face of the canvas was hidden as it spoke, but it straightened and looked up at the Artist with terrible longing and hope. “I don’t deserve to be painted with your likeness.”

Laughing, the Artist replied, “No! You don’t! I never paint myself on my canvases because they deserve to be painted, but simply because I wish to paint myself upon them. Bearing my likeness is a gift that I give to you freely, undeserved, simply because I want to give it to you.”

Upon these words, the pride of the canvas broke and dissolved. But to the surprise of the canvas, the death of its vanity did not end in painful desolation, but in a feeling of great peace and unspeakable joy. For the first time, the canvas wanted with all its heart the will of the Artist. Jumping to its feet, the canvas cried, “Not what I want but what you want, my Maker and Friend! Do as you will with me!”

Snatching up the canvas from the worktable and striding swiftly to his repair counter, the Artist said jubilantly, “Fantastic! You’re really going to like this!”

Under the careful, patient (though not always comfortable), work of the Artist, the canvas was restored. The self-portrait the Artist painted was magnificent. Hanging upon the wall in the Artist’s private gallery, the canvas lived ever after grateful, and delighted, and fulfilled. Each day the canvas bore the Artist’s image, it was a little less itself and a little more like the Artist until one day, many wonderful, satisfying years later, all that remained was the Artist, his noble, beautiful face looking with love, and peace, and grace upon all who viewed his portrait, warming and lifting their hearts.

“A small canvas,” visitors to the gallery would say, “But what an amazing picture of the Artist!”

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