Night Sky
Violetta stood at the edge of the low cliff, staring out at the setting sunscape. The beautiful dark colour that washed the night sky. A brilliant gradient of pinks and oranges fading to rich purple and black. The deepening night caused the leaves on the trees to transition from bright happy greens to deep verdant greens.
Her hair tied back in a messy haphazard bun, full of flyaways and unravelling strands in the soft spring breeze. Her grey blue eyes take a moment to focus and lock in details, sections at a time. Her freckled nose scrunches as a loose lock of hair tickles her. Tucking it back with her pinky finger she returns to her work. Deftly moving small globs of paint and mixing until she matched the colour of purple. And with a swish swish, and a flick of the wrist she applied, and blended the blacks and purples, matching the cascading colours of the sky.
Another light breeze pushed through the trees, and made the blades of grass dance around her ankles but also freed more locks of hair, tickling her nose and cheeks. Annoyed, she pushed them back out of her face, and scratched the itchy feeling off her cheek, leaving a wine coloured stain across one of her freckled cheeks.
She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath of the sweet spring air and listening to the songs of nature. The night birds taking the place of the normal twill of the daytime birds, the loud distant insects like grasshoppers and cicadas, a distant chorus of frogs or maybe toads croaking somewhere out of sight. The only time Violetta liked more was fall, and its tapestry of earthy colours, the kaleidoscope of reds, browns, yellows and oranges, were wondrous to paint. Trying to match every detail. In spring you could get away with the greens fading into one another, but in autumn every detail mattered.
After a moment she returned to her painting, the time for the perfect view was short, and time was never on her side, it had been several day of setting up in this exact place at this exact time to get to this point and the piece wasn’t half finish and spring was closer to over than she would have liked, no more time to waste. She dipped the wine purple brush in the jar of water and swirled it till the paintbrush was as clean as she could get it, before slapping it against the easel to get it dry, sitting it aside and getting a ‘fresh’ brush, mixing something just barely not black with the remaining purple. Violetta swept the boar hair brush from right to left across the top of the canvas working her way down in light gentle strokes, applying another dark layer across the one from the previous night, working her way down meeting tonight's new purple. In gentle swishes she started to blend the still wet paints.
Violetta peeked around the edge of the canvas, trying to match the last position of the sun as it slowly, but surely dipped below the hilly horizon. Once it was halfway between hill and sky she let out a small airy sigh, before washing the brush she was holding, repeating the small beating to get it as free of paint as she can, and began to pack things up to head home for the evening. Knowing, it would be at least one more night before the piece was finished. Gods’ willing the weather wouldn’t be too overcast or, forbid rain.
She was sad to not finish tonight, but it couldn’t be helped because the light was too dim and the walk back could be unsafe in the dark. Folding up the easel and walking it over, hiding it in the hollow of a tree, and taking her basket of paints, and holding the painting by a wire ran through the back for a hand hold to protect the wet paint.
Violetta walked quickly back home, when she finally arrived she pushed the door open and placed the paints on the table, and leaned the painting against a chair near the small fire burning in the hearth to help dry the paint. But not too much as to cause the paint to dry too quickly and pull itself tightly enough to crack and ruin the work.
She washed her hands in a basin of water before donning a pair of oven mitts to take the lid off her pot of stew handing over the coals. Making herself a bowl she sat across from where she’d sat the paints down. She looked over to a portrait of Violetta’s mother and father hanging on the wall, smiled faintly and settled in to eat her dinner.