The Perfect Artist

The following short story is written by Sarita Mohanty and published in the 83rd edition of Yamuna.

Illustration by Bhavna Rai.

In the mess of his room, lies a sheet of paper with lines and scribbles in fragments. Some lines are as dark as the graphite would let them be, while some lines barely show themselves even in the most intrusive glare of light. And then there are those parts of the paper which have not even the most minuscule touch of graphite on them, pure like a virgin. The paper is in no way intact: parts of it have been burnt off, leaving behind small holes with circles of brown fragility surrounding them; darkest in the inner most layer and fading into white as it spreads on the paper. There are fresh erase marks. Some erased so forcefully that crumples on the once

perfect sheet of paper are now conspicuous. Others erased even with more force, leaving

behind small tears on the sheet. Trying to conjecture how a pencil moved on a canvas when

a lot of suggestive inklings are available to the discerning eye is as abstract as the imagination

of a child allotting nouns to dollops of clouds on the blue sky. However senseless it might be, there is one truth to it, the artist is in love with this sheet.

1 minute ago:

A pair of eyes looks at the sheet of paper. Obviously it is not exactly what the artist had envisioned. The crumples should not have been there on the paper, and the tears could have definitely been avoided. However, they are there and like the magician who knows the secret behind his magic too well, the artist knows that what has happened cannot be

changed.

There are gross imperfections on this paper. Graphite marks so resistant that any amount of toil with the eraser will go waste. The artist has no choice but to take a burning match-stick and put it under the lines that had believed themselves to be victorious on this battleground. The fire quickly makes a hole on this sheet and leaves behind a ring of soot around it, blown away by the smallest breath from the artist. The artist proceeds to use the burning flame on multiple parts of the paper.

2 minutes ago:

The artist brings out his strongest weapon: the eraser. He glances at the piece of paper and takes note of all the places where the eraser will be used. He is careful about using this weapon for it has as much potential to do harm, as it has otherwise. The eraser touches the paper for the first time and slowly yet determinedly it starts removing the grey line. As soon as there is no trace of this grey line, it moves on to the next spot and with as much caution it starts

to work on this part of the paper. As time moves ever so slowly, parts of the sketch are erased. However, it is not a smooth process: the eraser faces difficulties: there were a few bold strokes on the paper. Even with numerous rubs from the eraser, a few marks refuse to leave the

paper. Frustration takes over, as the eraser tries even harder. This eventually crumples the paper. In some instances, it even tears the papers, leaving behind no hope of ever restoring it back to its original glory. Damaged beyond repair, as they call it. As the artist takes satisfaction from his productiveness, little does he realize that the eraser has also erased lines from the paper that were never meant to be erased.

3 minutes ago:

The sketch on the paper is a beautiful one. However, the artist is not pleased with this. Changes can be made, and hence he starts off by taking a pencil in his fingers and making certain parts more pronounced. As they become darker, the artist is relieved to know, that these lines will be on the paper for eternity. However, the artist is no example of perfection, and unknowingly, the pencil makes parts of the line darker; parts that were to fade away.

4 minutes ago:

The paper is intact. There is a clear sketch. A beautiful, naked portrait of the artist’s body. Indubitably the best work of the artist. Indubitably the most time-consuming. He starts locating areas that may require a finishing touch of sorts. Perfection doesn’t come so easily, he thought.