The Perfect Art Piece - Adrian Perezchica

         As I sat there eagerly eying my latest creation, the shadows danced around the tan walls  of my art studio, created by the sun's warm light peeking through windows, creating a brilliant  orange hue. Even the marble flooring appeared to radiate light itself while my colorful matte  paintings strewn across the walls, highlighted my artistic prowess. For good reason too.  

The world renowned art critic, Senora Pobre recently commissioned me. Apparently she  seeked up and coming artists to showcase and start the grand opening of her husband’s  prestigious gallery. The Unrealistico Exhibition. This was a one in a million opportunity.  

My thoughts abruptly ended after hearing the sound of heels reverberating across the  hollow staircase outside my studio. At that moment my studio doors vigorously swung open.  Senora Pobre. Upon entering the room her nose furled up, no doubt because of the metallic  smells the paint emitted. A smell I thankfully became mute to. The clutter of different size  shelves, each housing the tools and paints of the trade seemed to only dissatisfy her taste as her  expression turned sour before she turned towards my art.  

Senora Pobre’s dagger-like azure eyes pierced through the flimsy canvas that my art sat  upon, analyzing my craftsmanship in agonizing silence.  

She broke the moment with a critical comment, “There's too much clutter. This doesn’t  match the exhibition at all.”  

Hearing such insolence in her comment left me dumbfounded and at a loss of words. I  thought the assignment required me to show off creative freedom, or was I a fool for believing  so?  

“Of course, I’ll start again!” I chimed, but my sheer lack of enthusiasm bled through, for  Senora Pobre simply flicked her shimmering blonde hair in the air and gave me a disgusted look  while exiting the room.  

I reluctantly dragged my feet to the back corner of my studio where I kept a small stack  of canvases neatly placed for all my projects. She's a damn fool. I reminded myself in an attempt to relieve my anger and focus on painting again. A futile attempt in all reality, she commissioned  me. Messing up would mean losing this momentous opportunity. Or worse. My reputation.  

After depleting myself of most of my supplies and breaking a brush, I finished the second  piece. The trash in the garbage bin towered past the rim but despite this dilemma, I found myself  unable to resist gazing at the art piece in awe. I followed Senora Pobre’s instructions to the letter  and to be fair this art piece came out more stunning than anything I made before. I regret my  

harsh criticism of her style, maybe she carried more merit than I originally assumed. After all,  she is one of the world’s most famous art critics, and her late husband owned the largest art  exhibition in the country, so that must mean something.  

I quickly called Senora Pobre over and once again heard the familiar sound of heels 

climbing up the stairs. Yet again the doors to my studio slammed open with enough force to  make me jump.  

Without hesitation she walked in, glared at me, turned, and retorted, “Make it two people. It has  to be perfect.”  

Every bit of sentinemet I felt about her nearly vanished immediately.  

“Fine.” I murmured back to her. Senora Pobre did not appreciate my attitude, and  appeared hurt at my reluctance over her opinion. However she clearly liked the shocked look on  my face, because she snickered afterwards, leaving in a rush, her heels announcing she was  leaving with every step.  

Could she be making fun of me? I mean what did this lady even know about good art?  She's the one who needed to hire me for her exhibition in the first place. I reminded myself of  how prestigious the commission was, got my act together, and clutched another canvas from the  back. My paint shelf. however looked awfully barren, with only a few bottles remaining and  another yet another broken brush.  

Working on the third art piece became a battle of wits and cleverness. With my paints  supplies dwindling and my forearms aching from painting, I would need to be resourceful. I  never expected one of my projects to become such a demanding endeavor, but in the end here I  stand. With no paints, two broken brushes, and a new found lack of respect for modern art.  However after managing to salvage that third piece using my fingers and a simpler art style to  cut down on paint, I finished. 

Even before she entered the studio I could feel the cold sweat of fear rolling down my  sideburns and hitting the marble floor with a soft plop. Looking down at the reflective drop, I  saw the shadows of a monster approaching me, looming over my art with a menacing stare.  “Did you even listen? I will lose everything my husband created if this fails!” she yelled  at me. She continued rambling about professionalism, but by now I reached the end of my  patience.  

“YES, are you even fit to be an art critic? Because your opinion SUCKS!” I vented out,  without considering who I was talking to.  

“Ok you know what, I’ll hire someone else... again!” she snarled back.  

Immediate regret set in. There goes the greatest commission of my life, fluttering away in  the wind because I lost my temper, “Look, I’m sorry, give me one more chance, I think I have  something. Please!”  

With a single finger in the air, she announced “Last chance,” before storming off and  flinging the doors closed.  

“Shit,” I muttered to myself, how would I save myself now?  

I clearly lacked the supplies needed to even muster up a fourth attempt and with it, my  one in a million chance to make it to the artistic big leagues. However as grabbed yet another  blank canvas, I came upon an epiphany of sorts. By this time I realized that I did not care  whether or not my art made it to the exhibition anymore, I simply wanted to make a stance, and I knew this art piece would drive the lesson home.  

So after calling her over, hesitantly, for the last time, she walked in, a pretentious look on  her face. I presented her with my final coup de grâce, my last “art piece”.  A blank canvas with my signature on it.  

Immediately her eyes lit up like a child’s and she exclaimed with passion,”I love it! I can  feel the potential of young artists oozing through it! Their future can be anything just like this  blank canvas!”  

I couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth. After all the pain and struggle I put  into the previous examples, this blank canvas impressed her the most? I meant for it to taunt her  restrictions of creativity, and how it ruins the actual creative process, but instead it is praised for  it? I felt my respect for her and anything she stood for depart from my body. The moment she  paid me, I told her to leave so I could make real art. Also if that art is any indication of the  exhibition's quality, then I dread paying a visit when it finally opens, but let that be a problem for  another day.  

Finally peace.