Andy hated bailing on Tyler at the last minute, but he just had to get this painting done for his portfolio. He lit a joint, poured a cup from his French press, and set out in front of his blank canvas. He stared at it, conceptualizing the shapes and hues upon it. He picked up his brush and brought it to the canvas.

And nothing happened.

He looked out his window, watched the train go by, something so mundane and everyday. He tried to find the beauty and nuance of it, tried to make this routine occurrence resplendent.

And nothing happened.

He stared into the white abyss of the canvas. He begged for it to speak to him in some way, any way. It said nothing. Frustrated, he threw his brush across the room and began to pace. This was supposed to have been his summer of creation, his season of brilliance. But as the air turned crisp with September's arrival, his studio living space had nothing to show for it. How could something that usually came to him so easily, that was sixth sense, a second nature... how could it have left him so abruptly and so empty?

There had to be a common denominator. He lit another joint and looked through his portfolio. With each page turned, there was a painting full of angst, full of pain and beauty. His work showed a broken heart, of unrequited love never fulfilled, of love cut too short, of men who never appreciated the honor of having ownership of an artist's heart. With each love lost, with each heart broken, the brush met canvas and painful splendor was created. And currently... he was devoid of muse.

Andy called Tyler to see if he was still up for hanging out.

*

Thankfully the patio of Pick Me Up Café was still open, so Andy could smoke a cigarette, careful to keep it hidden from the waitress. Tyler made a face.

"What's wrong?" Andy asked.

"I just don't want to get in trouble."

"It's just a cigarette, Tyler. It's easily put out."

"Also, it's blowing downwind and in my face."

Andy groaned and put it out. He took out his moleskin and tapped his pen at it impatiently. Still, nothing.

"I'm glad you could hang out after all," said Tyler. "But aren't you gonna be behind? I know you wanted to start submitting your portfolio to grad schools."

"Yeah, well... nothing was coming. So."

"How do you mean?"

"That's the stupid thing about inspiration: you can just will it to come. It can't be scheduled or planned ahead of time, it just has to happen."

"Sure," Tyler said, still not fully grasping. He motioned for Andy's moleskin. "Mind if I have a look?"

Andy was reluctant at first: so many times he'd won a guy over by showing him his art. He wanted to try, just this once, to date someone who didn't know that side of him. So that he'd be sure that Tyler was dating him because of who he was as a person, not as an artist. But they'd been dating for a couple of weeks now, so he relented. Tyler skimmed through some pages, looking thoughtful as he paused on each sketch.

"Neat," Tyler said.

Neat? That's it? Andy was so used to people being overwhelmed by his work, he never considered the other extreme.

"So you like my stuff?"

"Sure. It's like... yeah, it's good."

"Well... what do you like about it?"

"Um... I like the shapes?"

"Are you asking me?"

"No. The shapes. I like the shapes. And the... it's really, REALLY good."

Andy didn't know what to do with that. "Hey, um, listen, I should get going. I think I've got something. Should get on it before I lose it."

Tyler beamed. "Whoa, did I inspire you?"

"Sure," said Andy.

*

The train going by blocked the view of the setting sun outside of Andy's window for a moment. He poured himself a Jameson neat and sat in front of the blank canvas again. He thought of the stupid emo angst of his teen years that yielded the black and red work that got him into the School at the Art Institute. He thought of his first love that was a little too distant that yielded the red and purple mixed media piece called "Pushed." He thought of the obsessive summer in Italy with Giuseppe, filled with intense passion that yielded the grey and white oil painting called "Drained." He thought of Tyler. And the canvas remained blank.

###