The artist stared at the blank canvas as she had been for the past hour. Occasionally she would pick up one of her brushes, and then would debate what paint jar to dip it into. Then deciding she didn’t wasn’t the brush she had first chosen, she fumbled in her helter skelter pile of brushes before choosing one more to her liking. Picking up a jar of the lightest grey with determination, she dipped in only the very tip of her brush. Then gazing at the canvas again, decided to apply a little more paint to the brush. After all of this fuss, she returned to her prior employment of staring at the canvas with not so much of a whisper of an idea of who or what image to begin to create on the empty canvas.
So many possibilities, the canvas was the empty universe, and she was god, she could do anything, create anything she wished. She had the instruments, the power, and yet she could not bring herself to think of anything worth taking the time to create. To have all the power and being unable to come up with a subject was quite the conundrum. It would have been comical, if it weren’t so frustration.
What she needed was the first building block to begin laying the foundation of creativity and that was inspiration. Inspiration could come in so many forms, she knew this, and yet she came up with nothing. The numerous subjects for the painting, and the endless ways of getting an idea for the painting are so plentiful, that it seemed impossible that there should be a lack of an idea. Yet, here she was with nothing.
An empty canvas, making her the artist: a failure.