To Paint a Dance

It’s like a dance, played out by two dancers. As they spin and twirl across the dance floor, they are carefree, making it up as they go along. Suddenly, mid-song, the music changes. Now they stand before an immense crowd of people and are expected to dance the dance perfectly.

She looks to her partner for reassurance, and he looks to her. Time is running out for the dance, and he nervously presents his hand to her. She, just as nervous, takes his hand and they begin the dance.

But the dance is not one they know well, and as they stumble through it, the crowd of people grows dissatisfied. The two dancers are unfamiliar with the dance and apprehensive as the crowd gets more and more unhappy. They doubt they can carry on.

***

It’s like a painted picture. He must paint a beautiful picture, on a canvas that has already been set inside a magnificent frame. It is a daunting task, and he falters. Yet still he continues. The brushstrokes remain the same.

He grows tired of standing so perfectly still, moving the brush in such precise movements. But he knows he cannot leave the painting until he finishes it. How can he go on in such a way? He enjoys painting, but now he paints in a way so that he can’t enjoy it. A task was set before him; a task he cannot leave; a task he can no longer do.

He doesn’t dare to paint outside the boarder.

***

It is time for her solo. She spins from her partner and hesitates on the stage for a moment. But she knows she cannot stop. Does she dare be different?

She twirls, her skirts flying around her as her partner watches along with the crowd. She steps where she knows, the bells on her ankles and the coins on her skirt tinkling with her every move. Dancing on the stage, she looks like a gypsy.

But she feels like a prisoner. The moves have been laid out for her; she can’t step outside of the pattern. The music is her prison, the dance her chains.

***

He dips the brush into the paint, still working within the frame. And now there are people watching him. They admire his work; they talk amongst themselves about it.

He cannot let them distract him. His strokes must remain true to the pattern laid before him. The painting is almost done, but he doesn’t like it. Three of the most perfect flowers have been painted, with one to go.

As the brush moves to finish, he smears the paint. His eyes widen in fear and a collective murmur runs through the crowd watching him. But he hasn’t destroyed the painting, not yet. Can he?

***

Her solo is almost finished, but the song is nowhere near the end. Her partner watches her twirl and leap, amazed she is doing as well as she is. Suddenly she stumbles. He lurches forward, but she catches herself quickly and smoothes over her error.

As she spins her hair flies free around her face, her skirts swirl around her legs. She spins and spins, growing dizzy. Twisting back into her partner’s arms, they danced again. But now she led. She took his hand and spun again. The world didn’t stop spinning as the two dancers twisted and whirled.

She led him around the dance floor in circles, shocking the crowd with their constant twirling. It was as though the crowd doesn’t even notice them changing the steps to the dance. He looks confused, but she just smiles at him. The dance is theirs to control. They can dance for themselves.

***

Questions form in his mind as he pauses, his brush hovering on the canvas. The picture he wants to paint is firmly in his mind. All the colors are in his hand; who could stop him if he wanted to change the picture?

He dips the brush into the red paint, a color that hasn’t been used in the painting. Without warning, he drug the brush away from the flowers. The people gossiped and gasped at what he was doing.

The paint was no longer just in the frame, it sprawled across the wall. His picture was no longer inside of his frame. He had broken away from the pattern set before him. He was free to paint what he wanted.