An artist takes a yellow spot and makes it into the sun

I see the paint on the previously blank canvas. At the moment, it's a small yellow spot. A shape. I'm looking as hard as I can to see what it is that she sees, or that she will see. An eye? A flower? She won't talk to me while she's 'working' but I know there's something going on in her head.

She swirls her brush around in the paint, stops for a moment, maybe to think, maybe to consider her exact angle of attack. Then she moves. Her hands are so steady and sure, and she guides the brush with such confidence. I wish I could see what she sees-- it's as though there is already an answer to the question of what the painting is, as though the brush is following invisible lines that only she can sense.

Another short pause, and once again I try to puzzle out what's happening in front of me. The spot has gotten larger, more orange and slightly pink in places. The beginnings of a face, perhaps? I cannot even begin to fathom what is happening in her mind. I'm a dancer, a writer. Visuals have never worked for me while not under the influence, and at the moment I am stone sober.

She has begun once again-- and I notice something. Her body is completely still, other than her working arm and hand. She is barely breathing. Her movements are so graceful and gentle. It is a dance with the canvas and the brush, played out in her mind and transferred to reality. This I can understand, the fluid motions, grace, an art to create art.

It goes on for hours, her painting, and I am entranced. My breathing becomes shallow, and I go into a daze. Her arms move, mixing paint, flicking and stroking at the canvas with the brush, occasionally pushing hair from her face. When I finally come to, I realize that I haven't looked at the canvas in ages-- I've been watching her. I shake myself to wake up fully, and then I turn my eyes to her work.

A purple murk. Orange streaks in the dusk. The hint of a grey-blue sea in one corner, foam kissing the edge of the canvas. But the crowning glory is the sun, the pinkyelloworange star bidding farewell to its throne in the sky, sinking again to allow night to resume its hold.