My canvas, representing the space for love I have in my heart, is vast and empty. It stands barren against the gigantic easel waiting, hoping to be touched by an artist who will give it life, who will give it purpose, who will give it meaning.

Surely there is someone artistic enough to mix colors that please me, who will be able to create a painting that I will appreciate always. I am optimistic, and I am hopeful, as I don’t want to keep this canvas stark and empty. It brings no pleasure to anyone, especially none to me.

Although many artists have come and gone, and many have tried to create a masterpiece, I was never really happy with their creations. They did not paint what I wanted, what pleased me. I could easily wipe off the wild abstractions of intense, blinding colors and the stolid realisms with their staid and stoic blends, as well as the insipid fantasies with their transparent, unsubstantial hues. They were not for me.

Feeling a futility, an impatience, and the sanity-threatening void of this emptiness, I almost didn’t see the quiet man wearing a black beret, holding a large brush on a palette full of wonderful, pleasing colors, approach the canvas.

He stands timidly at the easel, assessing the vastness of the space, debating, and then proceeds with determination. He blends his colors and makes his first stroke.

I watch with interest as he begins to fill a sky with his blended cerulean that seems deeper than a sky at midday. He seems confident but looks at me shyly as if seeking encouragement. I nod with a smile. He intrigues me. I can sense a difference about him; he is unlike any other artist I have known. Yet, I don’t want to make a commitment to have him fill the entire canvas until I am more certain of his abilities, of his determination.

I wait and watch, eager to see what he will do. He has such style, such flair, yet seems so vulnerable, and this touches my soul.

He paints. He smiles. He seems determined to win my heart. His painting is vivid and looks full of life. Is it because he has seen so much of life, or because he feels it so intensely?

I can no longer stand by uninvolved. I walk to him and stand close. He puts the brush into my hand, lays his hand over mine, and together we mix a large quantity of paint, enough to brush in the background on this vast expanse facing us. And then, with our brushes full, we stroke the color across the surface.

A deep sense of fulfillment comes over me as we continue filling the canvas with glowing pigmented hues and forms of life. Our colors become more intense, our strokes much more bold. The picture developing is strong and appealing, amassing a sense of wonder and awe at the harmony.

I know he is to be the one. I feel that resolutely, which, at the same time, frightens me. What if I invest my heart in this artist only to find that he is here just to create a masterpiece — conquer another challenge — intending to move on to create another elsewhere? What if he is only taking advantage of this empty canvas that I offer, wanting only to have another place to leave his mark? What if all this work ends up going unfinished or would be destroyed? So many questions; so much uncertainty. And I can see these uncertainties in the strokes I continue making. They are becoming weak and pale, without substance. My fears are guiding my hand. Those doubts and fears have become contagious, for together our colors become dark and muddy, our forms undefined and abstract. What is developing looks disagreeable and offensive, showing a stormy side to this painting of love, and I know we have to make a change or destroy what we have already produced.

We talk. We experiment. We work harder to get back the clarity and beauty of what we had first started to create until finally, our colors become true again. Our vibrant yellows reflect the great happiness I am feeling. To share and develop, to be one, but still, two is exhilarating and gratifying. The deep reds show the intensity of our passion. A passion that is unmatched, a passion that is felt down in the depths of our souls, a passion that is insatiable and yet filling. The soft purples and blue hues represent the tenderness we feel, the friendship we have cultivated, the closeness, the intimacy, and the specialness that enhances everything else that is there. The browns and greens illustrate the solid, earthy richness of something good and true. The painting is being transformed into a magnificent work of art. I can see it. I can sense it. I can feel it. And that excites me greatly, giving me a deep sense of joy.

The canvas is nearly covered, our painting nearly complete. But do I want it to be finished? That means he may leave since his work will be done. And now that I have felt this strange new feeling, I can see that love should be never-ending, always growing and developing, always being enriched, perfected, and cultivated. Otherwise, we could get very weary of seeing the same painting day in and day out, year after year, never changing, going uncared for, collecting dust, no longer being appreciated, no matter how good it started out to be. I don’t want that to happen to this work of art. I want him to help care for this wonder he helped create, to help maintain its richness and goodness. That cannot be done alone.

I have enjoyed this wondrous experience, helping with the development of such a masterpiece. And, even though I do want to have something great to show, to appreciate, to look at with satisfaction, I also want to feel the gratification of always creating, or always striving for perfection that will continue to remain just barely out of reach. After all, it’s not obtaining perfection that is the goal, it is the anticipation of that obtainment which gratifies.

Having him stay is not up to me, I can only ask and hope he feels as I do. He has fulfilled his purpose: filling the canvas, giving it life, giving it meaning, giving it love. His job, as first contracted, is finished. After having put so much of himself into this great work, perhaps he will feel as I feel and want to stay to maintain its greatness. I have to hope that he will. I hope he will want to stay close to this labor-of-love, because of his time, effort and so much of his soul that was put forth. We worked hard, overcame obstacles, and built something powerful. Will he stay? I am not confident, but I must ask.

I walk to him with a palette of vibrant colors, a large brush, and put them into his hands.

He stands there looking at me with uncertainty. So many things pass through his eyes, which leave me feeling weak and fearful in his hesitation. Will he give them back? Will he walk away? Will he keep them? Will he stay? I hold my breath.

He smiles, and after a moment he dips the brush into the deepest red, turns toward the painting, and carefully signs his name.

And adds: “Forever yours.” He then takes my hand and pulls me to him.

The Painting of Love

The Full Moon

The Blind Date