The Master was not pleased. Of course, he was hardly ever emotive in such a way that one could describe him as pleased. Josie’s painting had failed to impress him yet again. The piece, a simple depiction of a single tomato upon a table, presented itself as her best attempt yet. Weeks spent choosing the subject, days spent on each boundary and shift of color. As the Master’s cynical eye scanned each small stroke, each shade change and tone, a certain shame began to creep up on her. 

The painting was simply a farce. How could she have actually given it to him? The promise, that he would place it in his gallery if it pleased him, had probably just been another of many attempts to motivate her. A challenge she felt she had not met. 

Her brush strokes were blatant. They were thick, making themselves and their intent too apparent. Then the matter of the surroundings of the tomato, a dark background of dull browns and greys. The table it sat on was detailed efficiently but otherwise without the pattern of the wood grain. The subject itself failed to embolden her either. Dull, it bore no reflection of light. The stem of small leaves being only a combination of a single shade of dark green and black. If memory served she only used four shades, as compared to the ten she had intended originally. 

“It’s certainly missing something. Forgetful, aren’t you?” The Master said.

That she had the gall to show it to the Master at all made her cringe in pain. She reached for the frame but he pulled it away, chuckled under his breath, and returned to his studio without another word. Leaving her in the gallery, speechless. 

She did not return home right away, stopping by the store to purchase the supplies she would need. Pigments, brushes, a new palette knife. When she got home she picked up another tomato from the kitchen and placed it on her table.

This time the center of the light spot radiated a glowing white, grading into pinks, light reds, and becoming a deeper scarlet. The outermost portions, the hemispheres which were not facing the light, glazed deeper into scarlet, crimson, and deep brown. The stem now had flecks of brown and a noticeable dryness in detailed green and black wrinkles and missing pieces of leaves. 

The background remained a simple void, but her strokes were more gentle and less hasty. Even in such a plain effect, she realized, one must not rush for the sake of time. With this same mindset for delicacy she etched the carved grain of the table, the scratch in the wood from repeated tapping of her knife. The lines all cut straight, she finished her painting. Pleased, she immediately rushed it to the Master’s gallery the next day. 

He was standing where they had met the day before, seeming pleased with himself. Behind him, on the wall, was an amateur painting of a tomato. With her name written in permanent marker on the bottom right of the canvas.