jameson hawthorne had loved painting.
he once noticed a paint palette and brush lying on a wooden desk in his grandfather’s study. after searching, he found a blank canvas tucked in a corner. the palette and brush had already been used, so he went to wash the brush—but decided to keep the colors that were already on it.
for an hour, he worked in the study, moving the brush across the canvas, dipping it in water to vary the pigments, mixing colors to discover new hues, layering each stroke atop the last. by the end of the day, he had created a landscape.
it was a mess. the lighting in the painting wasn’t perfect. some colors were too bright, especially since there was no white on the palette.
still, he was proud of himself.
jameson kept returning to the study, painting every chance he got. with each canvas, he grew more confident. he decided that this was the skill he wanted to hone that year.
when he told his grandfather, however, the old man shook his head. “focus on something more practical,” he said. “painting isn’t a skill for the weak, jamie.”
jameson was disappointed but thought it fair. he was only seven, after all. that year, he chose fencing instead.
three days later, he returned to the study, eager to work on his paintings, only to find everything gone: the acrylics, the brushes, the palettes, the canvases—all vanished. when he asked his grandfather, he had no answer.
the next day, jameson asked grayson what skill he had chosen. grayson shrugged. “the old man suggested i try acrylic painting.”
a week later, tobias gathered everyone in one of the gallery rooms. grayson had something important to showcase. he unveiled a series of canvases, each a stunning display of people, objects, and still lifes.
jameson noticed something: the canvas dimensions looked oddly familiar—like the ones he had painted on. he asked grayson where they had come from, hoping his own paintings would be there too.
grayson replied, “i’m not sure. the old man just told me to reuse these old canvases with these paintings on them. said there was no purpose for them. i had to paint over everything, but i guess the old paint added texture to my…”
jameson felt tears prick his eyes and left.
later, tobias stood in his study, staring at one of the artworks. “we all have our own talents, jameson,” he said. “stick to your skills. grayson is able to convey meaning in his art—meaning your canvases lack. he has a natural talent for this craft.”
jameson hawthorne didn’t really enjoy fencing all that much.
