text: The day had come, and I was finally going to get what I deserve; success from my art. I bolted out of my bed and got ready as fast as I could. I took my vibrant masterpiece, leaning against the dull wall. It was the most complex painting I had ever made. Every color, every stroke, every pixel on the canvas, masterfully crafted with the precision of the finest bristle of the brush. After the labor of 100 hours, this was my most complex masterpiece, sure to win the contest. I reached the art studio where the contest was being held. Confidence filled my stomach as I glided to my seat and saw other artists hanging their paintings on the wall. I sat down next to my masterpiece, ready for the judges to see and admire my work. The crowd of art enthusiasts started pouring in, and after a few minutes, they filled the place to the brim. Many people came and appreciated my work, but I didn’t need them to tell me how good my painting was; I made it and I knew how good it was. The three judges emerged from the crowd and I stood up, welcoming them. They stood and stared at my painting. I tried to read their body language, but their stoic faces didn’t tell me a thing. “What was your artistic intention behind it?” One of the judges asked. I repeated the speech I had prepared a hundred times. “The Garden at the end of time is made on a 18 by 24-inch, double primed, pre-stretched canvas with around 54 different shades of colors, making it one of the most intricate paintings. The painting warrants a calm feeling in the viewer’s mind, making them remember a timeless memory of warmth and comfort. By this piece of art, I want the viewers to be mesmerised by the beauty of a garden.” They nodded and moved on, while I took a long breath and sat down again on my chair. That went well. I talked with other art enthusiasts when I heard the announcement. “The judges will soon announce the results. Meanwhile, you all are free to have complimentary snacks and appreciate your fellow peers,” a voice shouted on the intercom. I roamed around and saw my competition. I was being generous, calling them my competition. It shocked me, seeing the amount of abstract and minimalist artists appearing with their pointless art when I saw the dullest painting I had ever seen in my life. An antithesis to my masterpiece. It was a black and white painting made from charcoal and white paint. The title of the painting was ‘A simple masterpiece’. Thinking of the ego just behind the idea of considering this piece of trash a ‘masterpiece’ flabbergasted me. Those uber-pretentious minimalists think they make art when they smear white paint on white background. Even the wall in my painting studio had much better texture than this so-called ‘art’. “Do you like it?” A short woman, bursting with excitement, said while standing behind me. “Ah, yes,” I lied. “You uh... certainly capture the essence of um... of minimalism that Enrico Castellani expressed, if I am not wrong.” “No, you are absolutely right. He is one of my role models. I am Tahani by the way, Tahani Minhaj” “Anaya Shah. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands and shared silence, looking at the painting, until Tahani said. “I like to think the minimalist paintings involve not only the artist but the viewers too, in interpreting the meaning of the painting.” “That’s true, but what about the intentions behind the artist? Without the context and the idea from the maker of the painting, people can make innumerable opinions. The artist may have one thing in mind, and it may be interpreted as another.” “A painting is a window, showing the way to the stars. People can see other stars, but it doesn’t diminish the shine of others. The intention of the artist must always be to make the window as clean as possible, not cloud it with their own meanings.” “Woah, that’s deep,” I said to that freshman-level philosophy bullshit. She snickered and said, “Yeah, it’s just something my father used to say. So, what do you see in my painting?” My gut urged me to say nothing valuable, but I said, “It is simple yet bold.” “Is that your painting right there?” She curiously asked me. She walked over to my masterpiece and said, “It’s so... vibrant. Garden at the end of time,” she read the title of the painting. “Thanks, it took me days to complete the three-layer structure for the landscape.” “Your hard work shows. I rarely love traditional expressionism, but this is really something else. The three-layer depth is a nice touch. I think you might win.” “That’s modest of you. Your painting also deserves the utmost honor.” The intercom buzzed and the same voice again said, “Kindly gather around the main stage for the award ceremony.” “Well, see you around. May the best artist win.” We shook our hands and like birds flocking to the nest, so did every other person in the exhibit. The announcer and the three judges stood with three awards in their hands, the smallest being for the third position and the largest for the first. I heard the first one calling my name and attracting me like a magnet. I got so enchanted by the gold lining of the award that I couldn’t hear the announcements until they said my name. “The second prize goes to Anaya Shah.” The spotlight pointed at me, and it left me speechless. Second place! How could I get second place? I sluggishly walked towards the front stage and accepted the second-place award with a forced smile. “And the winner of the first prize is Tahani Minhaj.” I couldn’t hear what the announcer just said. How could she, a minimalist, of all people, win the contest? Pictures were taken, paintings were sold and connections with art critics and museum’s curators were made, all the while I silently cried inside. “See, I knew you would win,” Tahani said to me with the widest smile I had ever seen. “Congratulations to you too,” I said with my teeth clenched and stomach burning. My jaw was about to snap from all the fake smiling. “I wanted to ask you what you said when the judges asked you about the artistic intention of your painting?” “The same thing I said to you. I just showed them a window, and they saw their own intentions and interpretations.” I went home after the party and sat dumbfounded on the floor in my painting studio, facing the wall. What was so special about that minimalist art? I flew splashes around and that’s it? What was it compared to my hard work? I felt lonely staring at the mundane wall. I must’ve seen this wall a thousand times, day and night while working on my painting, but now I saw it in a new light. It’s small, almost unnoticeable cracks and splatters of paint coursing through like a river. I leaned on the cold and smooth feel of concrete. It must’ve been hours, in the deadly silent shift of night to morning, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move until I figured out what made abstract things so mesmerizing. I saw a slight blotch of paint flying above a series of the same color of paint stains. Although I thought myself to be above my peers, I had failed to see that I was one of them, an artist. “I see your value now.