“You were born an original, don’t die a copy”

ONE MONTH TO OPENING Everything was running smoothly. Pieces had been obtained from all around the world, some made from crayons, some oil pastels, and majority, paint. While renovations took place in the main hall, all the art was carefully stored in a secure vault somewhere in the basement of the museum. It was when no human eye was o them and they were truly alone that they would finally be free to interact with each other. Earlier that evening, a new addition had been placed in with them, and now they were able to examine and evaluate the newbie, immediately taking a dislike to her, for she was different. Instead of having the usual rough, messy brushes, forming a picture only when one steps back and looks at the canvas as a whole, she was made of fine strokes, each obviously having been precise and calculated, so that each tiny and minute detail was a masterpiece in itself. There wasn’t much to see; the background was black, with just a young woman, fully clothed, standing in the middle of the canvas. The other paintings did not like this. Her gentle disposition, the care with which she spoke and moved within the wall of her frame, the kind she sweet smile on her plump face as she greeted them politely… Almost as once the teasing began, harsh words directed towards her. “What is wrong with your style?” “Hey, neat freak, too proper to join us, are you?” “I bet you think yourself sooo much better than us, freak.” “Watch out, guys, or she’ll try to get you to be neat as well!” She didn’t reply, shocked by the treatment she was receiving. Why, the artist who had made her had taken his time, slowly and carefully painting and repainting to make her, and when he had finished, had he not called her a ‘masterpiece’? His ‘best work’? But the taunting continued on and on, filling her mind with doubt.   ONE WEEK TO OPENING The paintings had been carefully transported to the exhibition hall, hung along the walls in neat rows. The only one who wasn’t was the newbie, the one painting that was different. She was put on an easel and covered with a cloth. The lights were turned off, and at once the others noticed where they were, and their eyes fell onto the one lone painting, and the bullying that had recently died off started up again, with more fire than ever. “You’re so horrible they had to hide you!” “Didn’t we say you were too different?” “Do you see any of us being hidden?” “Oh wait, you can’t see!” Beneath the darkness of the cloak, she began to cry, and, as she did, the wetness of her tears mixed with the paint. Wide-eyed, she reached forward with one finger and ever so gently rubbed it against the canvas; the paint smudged. As the verbal abuse continued, a slight smile tugged at the corner of her lips and more tears fell down her cheeks and met with more paint. Maybe now she didn’t need to be so different anymore, she thought, reaching forward with her whole hand.   THE MORNING OF THE OPENING One last sweep of the place was done two hours before the grand opening, with the art specialist – and subsequently the owner of the gallery – joining the manager and workers. They reached a sectioned-off area; this was where the different painting stood, alone and still covered. A proud gleam entered the eyes of the manager. “This is our most special piece,” he bragged to his boss. “It took my contact months to find; I haven’t seen it myself, either.” With one swift motion, e snatched off the protective sheet, took one look, and gasped in horror. The detailed and individual brush strokes were gone, repacked by thick lines that stared back at them, messy and disorientated. “What is this nonsense?!” cried the owner. “This is nothing out of the ordinary. It looks just like the others on my wall, the cheaper and less distinguished ones.” He paused, eyeing the painting up and down before adding dryly, “I would hunt down that contact and demand my money back, if I were you.” Shaking his head and muttering darkly beneath his breath, the owner walked away to cancel the grand opening; there was no point if there was no centrepiece to display. He was soon followed by the crestfallen manager, and then the confused workers. Later that evening, the painting was removed from the museum. It had been deemed a forgery, due to the fact that they could not find anyone who could prove they were the artist who made it; even the original painter did not recognize his own handicraft and didn’t step forward to claim it as his. The canvas was removed, the frame used as firewood. And nobody ever heard or saw of the once-one-of-a-kind painting ever again. Diana Beige Posted with permission Original story from http://www.wattpad.com/66950013-stories-inspired-by-quotes-you-were-born-an