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She sat before the great masterpiece in awe. She had thought about this piece by her favorite artist for years. She had copied it over and over in the sketchbook she clutched in her hands.
"Oh no! Watch where you're going!" she yelled as a young boy bumped into her, knocking her papers all over the floor.
"Sorry, didn't see you there," he said as he helped her collect the fallen sketches.
"What are these?" he asked with amusement.
"Nothing, they're just my drawings," her cheeks flushing.
"Look guys!" he said to a group of oncoming children. "Come meet the next great wonder of the world!"
She snatched at the sketches from his hand, but not before he'd handed one to the group.
The group roared with laughter as they passed them among themselves.
"This looks like my little sister's crayon drawings," one chuckled.
"Hey, at least she can color inside the lines!" another piped in.
She swiped at the remaining sketch with tears in her eyes, embarrassed and sad.
The kids had confirmed her worst fears. She could never be a great artist like her idol. Her drawings were nothing special.
"Hey, what's going on over here?" asked an older lady, dressed like a maid, who had entered without anyone noticing.
"Oh, we're just asking for autographs from our next Picasso over here," the boy said pointing at the girl, who was looking at the ground, trying to disappear into the wall.
With a long glance at the sketches in the girl's hands, the older lady said, "Hmm, I see."
"Tell me lad, what do you see when you look at this painting?"
"I mean it's a bunch of ladies sewing quilts, isn't it?"
Blank-faced, the lady turned to another in the group and said, "What about you? What do you see?"
Laughing, the girl from the group said, "It's a bunch of poor women doing work you'd never catch me doing!"
"No no," said another boy from the group, "it's a bunch of women gossiping, passing time." All the boys laughed. The girls of the group feigned offense.
The maid didn't dignify his answer with any acknowledgement whatsoever.
Finally, she turned to the girl.
"And you?" she asked the girl.
The girl, as if roused from a dream, looked up.
"Huh? What?"
This was followed by another fit of laughter from the group of children.
"What do you see when you look at this painting, young lady?"
"O, I dunno," she whispered.
"Well, what if you did know?" smirked the lady.
"Well... I don't think it's an accident," she responded, still looking at the ground, "the contrast between the dull colors of the women's surroundings and the vibrant colors they’re sewing. They seem to be employees of some shop, and they’re making quilts that are far more beautiful than they need to be. But I'm sure I'm wrong..." she trailed off.
The lady egged her on, her lips turning upward slightly. "Anything else?"
"Well, I do think these women are poor. They're very, very poor. None of them wear shoes, the floor is made of dirt, they look unhealthy. But they aren't ashamed.
"Also, my mama gossips with her friends sometimes. And I notice that they laugh, but they're huddled closely, eyebrows raised, as if they don't want anyone else to hear what they're saying. These ladies aren't hiding anything. They laugh out loud.
"Most people talk about work like they hate it. Like they can't wait to be done with it. But that’s not how these women feel. It's like there's nothing else in the world these women would rather be doing," she finished.
"Yes. One might say that at its height 'Labor is the chisel with which Love carves its presence into the world.'"
The girl smiled.
"What makes you the artist you are is not what you paint, but what you perceive," continued the lady.
"It would be easier for me to teach you a thousand different brush strokes than it would be for you to teach me to see in the way that you already see," said the lady solemnly.
"What would a gallery maid know about art!?" the boy blurted.
The lady gave a small chuckle. "Oh, you're right. What would a gallery maid know about art? I'd know even less about the feeling of paint on a canvas, the precision required of each brush stroke, or the joy of seeing my vision come to life in color and form. And I'd be completely clueless about how it feels to create this," she said, pointing to the large painting before them.
The group of children stared at her blankly, not understanding her veiled sarcasm. The boy who had been so eager to mock the young girl opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking confused.
"You mean...?" the girl asked, her voice shaking with anticipation.
"Yes, dear," the lady responded gently, her eyes twinkling.
"And trust me when I say, your eye possesses more depth and insight than many of my peers who consider themselves 'mature' artists. So, keep your head high and keep sketching.
"The world thirsts for artists, gifted to gaze upon truth's face—those who perceive magic where others see the mundane, and brilliance where others find only blandness."
The girl clutched her sketchbook even tighter, beaming, her mind already whirling with ideas for her next drawing.