Once, noticing her painting alone at an easel on a rocky shore along the ocean, an artist lodging at the same hotel approached her on the beach, standing there scrutinizing her painting for a while in silence.
She could sense him looming behind her as she dabbed paint onto the canvas.
She was about to remark on how beautiful the weather was when he suddenly spoke.
“I must tell you, you have utterly failed to capture the appearance of the scene,” Edgar said.
Her hand froze, still gripping the paintbrush.
“There is, to be frank, a certain childishness in the attempt,” Edgar said.
Tears shimmered in her eyes.
She was almost too humiliated to respond.
“I,” Clara said, faltering.
“Pardon?” Edgar said.
She reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes with the back of a wrist.
“I’m trying to paint how the scene feels to me, not how the scene looks,” Clara said.