The old painter glided his brush across the canvas, finishing the piece with one final stroke. A young, female face stared from the canvas to the painter, bright blue eyes filled with hope and a devilish smile that could make the moon blush. The old painter stared back, eyes grey and muddied like the surface of a lake, giving the canvas a disapproving frown that could sour milk. The old painter sighed and shook his head. “Another canvas wasted.” In truth, it was quite the opposite. Each fine feature was rendered with such magnificent detail that it seemed as if the young woman might burst from the canvas at any moment. Then wonder aloud about the peculiarity of her circumstances. The old painter seemed to disagree, pacing around his small art studio in a huff, exclaiming to the world that he had failed and should vow to never lift a brush again. If the painting had the ability to hear, I'm sure it would've hidden away in shame. After a long session of shouting and blathering, the old painter returned to the canvas and the easel it rested upon, eyeing it up and down like it'd just asked to marry his daughter. He had to admit, the painting was rather good. Exemplary, in fact, whether it be its innovative use of colour or the realism of the figure. Though that did little to stop the disappointed glares he sent its way. After an inconclusive staring contest, the old painter decided he'd had enough. He raised the canvas portraying the young woman and, with a grunt of exertion, sent it flying into the nearest wall. The delicate woodwork of the painting exploded into splinters, shredding the canvas and the beautiful figure captured atop it. The painter breathed heavily from the effort, face red from anger. The old painter looked about his studio looking for something else to break. Masterpiece after masterpiece hung from the walls like portals to other realms, capturing moments of beauty and heartbreak, love and betrayal. To the old painter they were nothing. Uninspired, bland and inconsequential. They lacked something vital. Something that had been missing in his art for a long time. Accolades and awards sat next to each painting, but even they couldn't satisfy him. What was IT? He looked left to right, then back again. He wanted to scream and yell and reduce everything to pieces. To tear out each individual strand of his hair just to stitch them back in to do it all over again. Then his eyes landed on something, and his features softened. It was no masterpiece like the other canvases hanging from the walls. From a glance, the painter spotted a seemingly endless supply of errors that would cause a collective heart attack in all art critics for miles around. The canvas expanded into years past. A young girl, no older than eight, was prancing among rolling hills of verdant green. Her entire face seemingly uplifted by the dazzling smile between her lips, framed with a crown of golden daisies atop her brow. The old painter smiled. He remembered that day so clearly it was almost like he'd just experienced it. He had wanted to practice his landscapes by painting the grassy knolls hidden away behind his family home. Aurora, his little sister, had decided to tag along. She had been so happy to ‘help' her big brother with his painting that she didn't realise that frolicking in the flowers was blocking his scene. Eventually he gave up on the landscape, unable to disappoint his little sister by raising the issue. Instead, he told her to do her biggest smile and hold it for as long as she could. He was so proud of the result, he let it hang in the kitchen for years until it made its way to his art studio, gathering dust. The old painter walked slowly to the painting, wrinkled hands brushing away some of the dust that had accumulated over the years. What was it that made this piece so special? The colours blended where they shouldn't, and Aroura's proportions were off. Giving the impression that she was unnaturally tall and thin for an eight-year-old. No, it wasn't the art itself. It was the enjoyment he experienced by creating it. His smile was almost as wide as his sister's when he'd showed it to her. A smile that lasted throughout the day. A smile to turn back on when times felt rough. The old painter turned to look about his studio once more. Each piece was magnificent, yet the moments of their creation were hazy and dull. Although they were beautiful, they meant nothing to him. Even the ceremonies where he had been piled high with awards and accolades were only half remembered. Ignoring the ruined pieces of his earlier work, he pulled out a phone and called a familiar number. “Aurora,” the old painter said, “It's been a while since we've last spoken. Care to catch up over a cup of something warm?”