Something was missing.
It wasn’t that the painting was bad. If anything, a passer-by would probably say it was breathtaking; gray lines slanted upward into sharp peaks, green brush strokes rolled into perfect distant mounds, comforting blues mixed with wide rivers of white that enticed listless minds, a beautiful reflection broken only by a gentle breeze, and of course, the main ingredient. A group of three ponies danced across the canvas, their smiles infectious to anypony lucky enough to glance at the masterpiece. Anypony, but The Artist.
The Artist stepped back to examine the painting, rubbing circles into his temples with his wings. Most would be proud to call his work their own. “Your art is amazing! The brush strokes are so clean! It’s such a beautiful scene!” they always said.
But they never saw it the same way he did. Where others caught a glimpse of peacefulness, he understood stagnancy. While they observed a charming field surrounded by regal mountains, he regarded a green prison boxed in by tall gates. But it didn’t have to stay that way. All it needed was a little spark, a flicker of something special, and it would be complete.
Something was missing.
The Artist sighed and placed the spotless brush back into confinement. No matter how hard he stared at the painting, he couldn’t figure out what would make it complete. It was such a simple answer, an obvious solution, defiantly remaining just out of reach, as it always had. What was it?
Could it be a splash of color? An ocean of flowers to lighten the mood even further? he wondered as he selected another paintbrush and dipped it into a painfully sweet pink. Carefully, new lines appeared across the canvas, breaking up the monotonous greens and contrasting with the blues.
Something was missing.
The soothing air that the flowers gave off weren’t it. They left a sour taste on his mouth, despite their pretty appearance. He didn’t even think it was an improvement, though it was worth the shot. Sighing again as he washed off the paintbrush, he returned it to its place and selected a much larger one from the rack.
Is it too peaceful? Yes, that must be it. It needs a sense of impending doom. Something to break up the sweetness. The Artist violently splattered blacks and grays across the canvas, creating a distant fire yet to be noticed by the carefree foals.
Something was missing.
That still didn’t fix the issue. Why did the painting seem to constantly be missing something, no matter what he added? Was he simply just going about it wrong? Did the painting actually need anything, or was it all in his head?
No, The Artist thought stubbornly. It still isn’t complete. Maybe I’m working with a bad theme here. What if I just… He selected yet another brush, forgetting to wash the previous one. Covering up old paint with new, he made the ponies’ expressions sour, turning them from innocent foals into thrill-seeking delinquents.
Something was missing.
No, no, no! That wasn’t it either! He snorted in anger and picked up his last brush, ignoring the clatter of wood hitting the floor as he knocked the spent ones off the table. Other ponies got this right all the time, so why was it so difficult for him to do properly? Whenever he looked at the work of one of his peers, he always saw complete pictures. Cities that captured the emotions of the inhabitants perfectly, forest scenes with not a leaf out of place, beaches that brought the ocean straight to the viewer like it was a unicorn’s magic. None of them were missing a single brush stroke.
The Artist fought with the painting, completely changing the setting and turning it into an entirely new piece. He was a wealthy estate owner, the canvas his butler, and the brush strokes his commands. They would create a full picture. They would listen to him.
Something was missing.
The Artist hurled his brush across the studio and turned his back on the painting. Nothing he ever tried was the answer he needed. This happened time after time, no matter how many attempts he took. Even if nopony else ever saw it, the black yawning hole was present in every one of his paintings. They were all missing an essential piece, something to make them whole.
He gazed up at the wall in front of him where dozens of other scenes hung, no different from the one he had just given up on. Every one of them a failure. Every one of them the same.
Something was missing.
Will this emptiness plague my work forever? How can I remain an artist when I know something is missing? Something so integral that I might as well stop painting if I can’t fill the gap. The Artist sighed yet again and glanced between the many pictures strung up high for all to see. His failures, on display to any who cared to turn their head in his direction. Many might think he’d have gotten used to that feeling by now, but the claws that gripped his heart were as sharp as ever.
With his head in his hooves, The Artist collapsed onto the wooden stool and stared blankly at the floor, just as he did after finishing every painting. Just as he did after finishing every failure. Should he simply accept it? The fact that his paintings will never be complete? Would that even make it any easier to deal with? Was he capable of giving up hope entirely in the first place?
Something is missing.
A bright flash illuminated the floor underneath him, and he sat up to see the setting sun filtering in through the studio’s window. The great fiery ball stared straight back at him, and he smiled forlornly at it. It reminded him of his younger years, before he ever realized anything was missing from his paintings. No, before there ever was anything missing. The years when he could let his soul flow onto the canvas without the fear of failure constantly floating above his head. However, despite how much he hated his current circumstance, there was no way out for him. He was locked into this empty future he had chosen when he unwittingly started down this path all those years ago.
The Artist sighed one last time and turned back to face the painting. In his earlier rage, he’d somehow transformed it from a happy nature scene into a dark anarchist wasteland, the three foals its benefactors. The original mountains and rolling hills had been a recreation of his very first painting when he’d discovered his talent, and now they were destroyed, carved open by the dark abyss that was a cancer to his very existence. He snorted ironically to himself. Even after such a dramatic change, it’s still not complete.
It will never be complete.
