Two Minds Are Better Than One

This is Maisie.

She loves nothing more than picking up a brush or pencil and guiding a story over a canvas. Autumn leaves and rain ignite her passion. She’s the soil awaiting the flood of enrichment. Reds, blues and yellows evoke a storm in her head – a storm she sets free on paper.

Sometimes it’s princesses; other times it is violins. Wherever her brush goes, she captures a scene. The sunset inspires her. The sunrise chases her. Until she reaches her outlet she will never find peace.

But there’s something missing. You see, she doesn't go outside. She likes the rain, yet only against the window pane.
She’s never seen a princess and, well, she’s only heard violins on the radio. Those autumn leaves which fuel have never had the chance to say hello.

She wishes she could go out there. She wants to breathe every field and sea. The problem is not the scene; it’s the people, you see. Beneath every face and suspecting expression, she knows they’re all watching her secretly. Does she have paint on her face? Is there food in her brace? What is it they all see?

To Maisie, they think she’s bizarre. She is a walking zebra-striped giraffe. She can’t think it is something else. She doesn't realise they think she’s normal or that they admire this artistic cathedral that is her.

Maisie doesn't know Ben. Not yet, anyhow. He’s artistic, like her, but in a different way; he has the sound. He bows and plucks the violin that Maisie's never properly heard. He has the sound and she has the brush – together they can speak through words mute to the tongue.

This is Ben.

Ben is a performer. He loves the crowds. The chants for an encore and the applauding hands will forever make him proud.

He lives to impress, and impress he does. In his all black dress suit, he can calm an audience down. With his soothing melodies and his exciting motifs, the people don’t know what to expect of this wizard each and every night.

His fingers cast spells upon his sword: the violin. He’s a manipulator, an artist; the whole world hears his call.   

But, there’s one thing he struggles with. He can’t compose his own masterpiece. He only plays pieces by like the likes of Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky.

He wishes he knew how. He wishes he could create a piece of such taste that the world would bow down to his stage. Maybe, just maybe, he will be able to some day.

When Maisie met Ben, it was awkward at first. A shy artist next to the brave musician – how was it to work?

Slowly, Maisie showed him how colour worked. She showed him how she could splash them onto her canvas to create anything she wanted.

Ben watched in awe. He’d never thought of this before. He put this colourful spice into his music and suddenly it was more interesting than before. He thanked Maisie for her help. She shyly said it was okay. But as Ben turned away, he knew he had more to say.

He knew she was shy and kept her talent hidden. He thought this was silly as she was better than most of the artists on exhibition.

He helped her overcome her fear. He told her that they would be looking at her art more than her face. She was reluctant to accept this because she didn't feel like this was the case. So he let her be for a little while although he wasn't quite content.

One day, at one of his concerts, he kept a covered board up on stage. Once he had performed and the audience had roared, he pulled the sheet from the display.

It was Maisie's painting; one of hers, anyway. The audience gasped and then clapped their joy to the stage. Ben hushed them, and he explained that it wasn't his. The audience watched in bemusement until he announced it was his friend, Maisie's. ‘Who is this Maisie?' The audience muttered. No one had heard of her before. A great creator whom they did not know – how can this be?

Maisie never appeared on the stage. Her name did but she did not. Ben had spread the word and she was not to be forgotten. 

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