Best in Show

On day one of the art show, the Artist stood by his masterpiece. Not in front of it, so as not to block the view, just off to the side, with his rainbow-striped winter scarf loosely around his neck, his just-too-short black pants revealing brightly-patterned long socks, the other end of the socks safely hidden in black shoes, heels together, toes forming a perfect equilateral triangle with the walking stick he sometimes leaned on, but carried for a different purpose.

A few minutes ago, we could have heard the Artist talking to a group of people, general audience with most likely one or two of the esteemed judges hiding among them, with said walking stick used to point at different areas of his painting — the complimentary colors of the moon and the pine trees, the snow on the branches, painted with a mix of titanium white, cadmium yellow and a third color he wishes to keep a secret, several minute details in the background he appreciates everyone noticing. When he finally got to talking about the owl sitting on the field in the foreground, with his one foot grabbing what appeared to be his dinner and his dark eyes staring right at the audience, the Artist sounded like a proud parent. As the various groups of visitors stopped to admire his piece, he never failed to mention the brush he used for the primary wing feathers, specially commissioned from a foreign supplier and much different from the one that worked so well for the tail feathers. He paused after explaining the contrasting brown and white colors of the owl’s face — a welcome break in his speech the audience inevitably used to escape, making their way over to the next masterpiece.

While waiting for visitors, the Artist used his free hand to alternately tug on the end of his winter scarf and push his glasses higher up on his nose.

A boy came with his mom — unlikely to be one of the judges, but the Artist stood up a bit straighter and cleared his throat anyway, ready to start his spiel. The boy interrupted his preparations.

“What is the owl eating?” he asked.

“I’m glad you noticed the owl,” the Artist responded to the boy, but turned immediately to Mom, “isn’t he phenomenal?”

“But what is he eating?” the boy asked again.

“Some rodent. Maybe your mom can explain later about rodents.”

“I think he doesn’t like you,” the boy said.

“It is a spectacular painting,” Mom said, grabbing the boy’s hand and turning to move. “So real… as if he could fly off the page.”

This gave the owl an idea. He simply left his meal and flew away, disappearing among the snowy pine trees.

The astonished Artist hurried to cover up the painting, no longer a masterpiece, just some moonlit trees with an almost empty field in front. Grabbing his walking stick in one hand and shoving the painting under the other armpit, he fled to his studio. By the morning, with the foreign-made brush and the contrasting colors, he repainted the owl along with a grayish rodent (a mouse?) for dinner.

On day two of the show, he stood by his masterpiece again. Every once in a while, he’d glance at the painting to make sure the owl didn’t fly away — but how could he? The Artist made sure to paint him with his wings clipped, just in case.

He saw Mom and the boy coming as soon as the doors opened that evening. The boy, forgetting that art galleries are not meant to run in, sprinted across the room to see the owl.

“How could you? What did you do with his wings?” he demanded.

The Artist pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. He really hoped no one would notice — after all, he blended the shades perfectly.

“I did what I had to,” he said. “Now run along.”

“If I were him, I would hide under the pine trees. Much better than out here with you!”

The owl agreed. The Artist watched with increasing alarm as his masterful bird hobbled into the forest in the background.

“What did you do?” the Artist turned to the boy. “I want him to stay in the picture! Bring him back!”

“I can’t bring him back — he is your owl.”

“Exactly. He wouldn’t even exist without me! I need him to do what I want!”

Mom caught up with the little boy just as the exasperated Artist sat down on a chair.

“We should go,” she said. “But Mister… have you thought about what the owl needs?”

Huffing and puffing, the Artist gathered his painting and his walking stick, then headed to his studio once again. An idea was starting to form, not in his haughty head, but somewhere deep in his heart.

On day three, the Artist wore a plain gray suit. He left his scarf at home, and carried nothing but his masterpiece to the show. He moved his chair across the hall, with a good view of not only his painting, but all who came to look. He watched, and listened. This time, the judges walked through the exhibition together to make a final decision. The little boy tagged along.

“Look, Mom, a white-footed mouse!” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, pointing to the field where the owl used to be. It was a perfect mouse running across the snow, with reddish fur on his back, a white belly, and tiny icicles forming on his whiskers. A moment later, flying to the center of the painting, the night owl returned.