The painter had a simple problem: he could not paint.  This persisted for months. Each time he raised his brush, his hand would falter and flaccidly drop to his side.

BY TORI WANZAMA

IMAGE BY Bre Woodsy

The painter had a simple problem: he could not paint.  

This persisted for months. Each time he raised his brush, his hand would falter and flaccidly drop to his side. Each time he looked to his canvas, he would see only a sterile sheet of white, incapable of bearing creativity. And each time he failed to produce something worthy of viewing, he would stew in his impotence, feeling a little more hopeless than before. To him, a painter who cannot paint, for any matter of time, is worthless and undeserving of his very title.  

The painter had a simple problem, but its solution was nowhere near so.  

Creativity, the complicated creature that it is, has a habit of eluding those who attempt to capture it, especially those who want it most. The painter knew this. He had lived through his share of creative blocks, each debilitating but curable through his own resolve for remedy. His issue of artistic impotence was entirely independent, and as such, the solution must be so as well. 

What the painter could not recognize, however, was the privilege of his profession. Within the working world of artists, there is a nuance that does not exist elsewhere: there is forgiveness for brilliance. This is the case for any business that deals in all that is abstruse and abstract. While there is no patience for the baker who does not bake his daily dozen nor any tolerance for the farmer who does not farm the yields of his land, there is pity for the painter who cannot paint. There is sympathy—even if he is great. If he is great, he is allowed his tragedy, for he has earned it. The acknowledgement of great art brings with it a silent understanding for the artist and the perils of his production. The artist is forgiven for his failings so long as art is seen as suffering and his art is seen as something worthy of suffering. These conditions are gifted almost automatically by greatness, and the tortured artist is made a martyr as he reproduces beauty even as a victim of his craft. 

The painter, in the midst of his melancholy, could not see this. His brother, however, did.  

Six months’ worth of frustration and aborted artworks led the painter to call his brother. He lamented to him over the phone, “I have tried time and time again, but still nothing comes to me. My brush is steady and familiar, but it is my hand that fails—it cannot perform. My canvas stays as barren as my mind. Artistry escapes me and I am left fraught to chase after it once more. Each time I take part in this cycle, I feel myself losing the passion that drove me to try. I don’t know what will become of me and my craft. Please, what do I do?” 

The artist’s brother listened with his ear to the receiver and a smile on his face. There was a unique quality of artistic sorrow within the painter’s words. He so solemnly whined of a frustration that was exclusive to members of his trade. To his brother, this melodrama almost appeared staged, but it wasn’t. It was entirely sincere and that made it better, brilliant even. For the painter’s brother was a salesman, and though his business lay mostly in the sales of homes, he carried with him a knowledge of profit. Like his younger brother, his talents were intrinsic, and upon hearing of his brother’s hardship, the instinct of his occupation was activated.  

As he listened, the salesman thought to say, “Brother you do not realize that your genius lies not only in art, but in your tragedy as well. The perfect opportunity presents itself to you, but through the cloud of your self-deprecation, you do not see the chance you have created for yourself without doing anything at all. You have a privilege unheard of in any other profession. The artist can turn his pain to profit, and given your condition, you ought to.”  

But the salesman did not voice his feelings so blatantly. He knew convincing his brother would not be so easy. His understanding of the sale told him there was far more art to persuasion.  

Instead, he said to his brother, “The only certain remedy for your issue is time. Allow yourself a year—a year of attempts and failures, and at the end of it, I’m certain you will produce something worthy of appreciation. I will return again, but in the meantime, stay inside with your canvas. Get to know her again.  Should any concern besides your craft come your way, only tell me, and I will take care of it.” 

“But how can you be certain this will work?” the painter asked, “and what shall I paint?”  

“I am confident you will find your way. You have done it before, and I am certain you will do it again. You are the key to your own remedy and soon enough you will realize this.” 

The painter pondered his brother’s words. The solution he outlined was simple, so simple it actually made sense. The painter’s passion was reignited with these words and the tiniest bit of excitement sparked within him.  

The salesman was satisfied with this.  

Three months passed after their conversation and still the painter could not paint.  

He would raise his hand to his canvas and still it would falter. He would look to his canvas and find it was still a sterile slate that would not welcome him. And though a feeling of failure still sat in his gut from his own incapacity, he took comfort in his brother’s words. Time would certainly heal him.  

While the painter struggled to work, however, his brother had no problem at all. He had been working all the while. After their encounter, the salesman would tour local art buyers with his brother’s borrowed art at his side. Each time the salesman came to his brother’s home to deliver on his promised errands, he would, without asking, take a painting from his brother’s collection on his way out. He’d store it in the trunk of his car as he embarked on a journey to his next potential buyer. He had quietly drummed up interest in the painter’s work, not just through the quality of his brother’s art, but in the promise of a masterpiece to come at the end of this artistic drought.  

“You just can’t rush an artist like this,” he’d say as his clientele poured over a stolen piece, “greatness of this kind is worth waiting for.” 

Six months passed and still the painter could not paint.  

Rather, his condition seemed to worsen. He no longer looked to his canvas. He found the blank slate intimidating. Its endlessly plain appearance seemed to frighten him so he could no longer raise his brush to the canvas. In his new skittish state, he began to wonder how he and his canvas ever managed to get along. It seemed impossible to produce something great from their spoiled union. So, the painter began to distance himself from his canvas.  

All the while, the salesman continued to foster connections within the artistic circle. He had been successful in cultivating interest in his brother’s work, successful enough to create an eager following of collectors itching to see the promised masterpiece. The salesman knew he had done well for himself, and he was more than satisfied. The pieces of his plan had fallen together seamlessly, and though he was not privy to his brother’s state, he trusted his quarrel with the canvas would be sorted before the year’s end.  

A year of waiting came to pass far sooner than the painter had imagined.  

He was informed his working period had come to an end when his brother arrived at his door wearing a grin. Only the painter’s brother did not come alone this time. Behind him stood a crowd of eager artistic appreciators desperate to view the piece that had caused the painter a year of torment; their smiles were just as wide as the salesman’s. 

They pushed into the painter’s house with urgency. Their eyes scoured his home. They scrutinized the bare walls, the dusty shelves, the worn furniture, as if each were a feature that would somehow allow for insight into the curious mind of the painter. There was some effort in understanding, but there was a far greater effort in finding the painter’s latest work. 

His brother led the procession. He walked heedlessly through the painter’s home, muttering thoughtless comments of praise as a show of his enthusiasm. His company similarly rambled, buzzing about like flies. And when they reached the painter’s room, they similarly swarmed inside and crowded around the canvas that stood in the center.  

Only, the pretentious swarm were not met with the honeyed masterpiece they were promised, but a blank canvas—sterile still, as she was months ago.  

A year’s worth of trying was, in the end, a year’s worth of failure free from creative conception.  

The painter still could not paint.  

The painter’s brother turned to him. Bewilderment marked his face. His expression demanded an answer and so the painter spoke. 

“I tried. I tried and tried and still I couldn’t do it. Brother, you never told me what to paint. When I indulged in myself, not an idea would take, not a seed of thought would sprout. My canvas appeared even more distant. And when I sought out inspiration in my old work, I found there was nothing there. As though I had imagined everything we had conceived. This pained me, and in my hurt, I separated myself from my canvas. I can no longer stand her.” 

The painter’s poetic lamenting brought a hush about the crowd. Their eyes darted back and forth between him and his divorced canvas, as if searching for something within their separation.  

A second of silence seemed to slake their thirst for answers, and their yearning gaze landed on the canvas, clean and free to be bred by interpretation only buyers and sellers can offer themselves. And so, they turned away from the painter and were content to pore over his plain progeny amongst themselves. 

The salesman supposed he was satisfied with this.  

The painter, however, certainly was. For the painter no longer had a problem, nor a trade by which he could call himself. He would not paint, and in knowing this, he at last found release.   

Tori Wanzama is a first-year Media Communications student at The University of Guelph-Humber. She wants to create.

Image: Blank Canvas

Edited for publication by Caroline Poon, as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.