Stroke of the Brush

Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement grabbed my attention. I walked a few steps away from the gorgeous blue Japanese modern painting I had been considering buying. Now I stood squarely in front of an oil painting that took my breath away. I could describe it as stunning, extraordinary or glorious, but even if I used hundreds of words in an attempt to describe the magnificence of the painting, it would have been an abject failure. No description did it justice. In its simplicity, it was powerful. The woman in an airy dance dress swirling around her thighs was exquisite. A backdrop of muted grays, blues, and white served to frame the dancer as she pirouetted across the canvas. The graceful sweep of her arms, the slight bend at her wrists, her tilted head, and the absolute bliss on her face evoked a heightened emotion in my body. My heart was pounding and my breathing quickened. I felt flushed and slightly dizzy, certain I was going to faint. I thought the painting might have been a portrayal of someone the artist knew. While it was a still life, it held a certain energy. There was movement in its fixity. It seemed almost alive. I thought to myself, I have to have this, and as that thought gained traction, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I saw Ana, my best friend who had convinced me to go to the gallery tonight when all I wanted to do was sit in front of the fireplace and catch up on my reading.