Today’s Word: Insipid
Kelly paced the highly polished floors, affecting the smug assurance of a true artist. Not one of the canvases he passed rose above the work of a high school senior, perhaps even freshmen. They were insipid scenes of dispassionate fruit, dimensionless blue skies, and absurd geometric patterns better suited to a child’s playroom than a house of art. Most of the unframed works he merely ignored, but several warranted a soft chuckle, some even an outright guffaw.
And then came the maiden.
It was a large canvas, three times that of any other in the exhibit. The plane of tight-woven fabric, large as it was, could but only contain the riot of color and beauty oiled upon its surface.
The maiden stood before Kelly, nude and shamed and resolute. Her eyes held the depth of knowledge, her breasts the breath of life. In one slender hand she clasped a yellow rose, wilting yet vital still, soft and undeniably fragrant. The maiden’s slightly turned heel denoted a gift for dance, and the curve of her full lips spoke of mirth. She was life. She was art. She was real.
Kelly turned about, searching the crowd that even now was gathering at the maiden’s feet until at last he found her; a twin to the canvas, standing apart from the rest, the same sweet smile tugging her soft lips upward.
She was beauty. She was love. She was ruin.