My Magical Brushstroke
I’ve never been particularly gifted in the arts. Although I admire the works of great masters like Jacopo Bassano, Giuseppe Arcimboldo, and the Impressionists—Claude Monet, Paul Cézanne, and Edgar Degas—I’ve always been more of an enthusiast than a practitioner. But my friend Daniel, now he was born with the creative touch. He was one of those rare individuals whose mind was seemingly hardwired for artistic expression, and because of that, he carved out a special place for himself in the social circles of Brasília.
I remember, or at least I think I do, his first great triumph. It happened during his time at school, where the annual event was the much-anticipated Indigenous Art Contest. The prize? A walkmachine—those motorized scooters that were all the rage among the teens at the time. Naturally, Daniel wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away, so he set his sights on the prize and began conjuring up a masterpiece that would surely leave the judges in awe.
With an unwavering focus, Daniel spent days and nights working on his entry, ensuring that it would meet the high expectations he had set for himself. I was there during the final touches, visiting him to catch up and, of course, to shoot the breeze. I watched for what felt like hours as my friend labored over his work. It was a piece that showcased bold indigenous motifs—reds, blacks, and whites blended together to form a rectangle, which was then divided into smaller squares, each filled with intricate patterns meant to invoke the rich traditions of native culture. I must admit, it was impressive.
What captivated me most wasn’t just the composition, but the technique Daniel was using. He was painting with pastels, but the magic happened when he dipped his brush in water and applied it to the pastel. The colors came alive—sharp, clear, as though he had transformed them into watercolors. It was a subtle yet mesmerizing effect. I stood there, transfixed by the transformation happening before my eyes, and before I knew it, I found my fingers inexplicably drawn to the vibrant red section of the painting, right on the edge of one of the squares. I don’t know what I thought I was doing, but I figured, why not touch it? The color was calling to me like a siren song.
And so, with the utmost grace and precision (or so I thought), I gently dragged my finger across the red, fascinated by the vividness of the pigment. But alas, the painting was still fresh, and my "artistic intervention" had unintended consequences. As I moved my finger across the red, I left a sizable smudge—an undeniable, glaring mark just outside the boundaries of the carefully arranged rectangle. The painting, which had been nearly perfect, now had what could only be described as a "magical brushstroke" of my own making.
Imagine the scene. I froze. I couldn’t breathe. I was rooted to the spot, staring at the smudge I had so carelessly created. Daniel, bless his soul, didn’t react immediately. I couldn’t tell whether he was about to explode with rage or break down in tears, but whatever it was, I could feel a certain tension in the air. As for me, I felt a rush of laughter creeping up. Yes, even in the darkest moments, even in those times of utter disaster, the impulse to laugh is impossible to suppress. I couldn’t help it.
As the minutes dragged on, it became clear that the situation had taken a turn for the worse. When Daniel’s uncle, Edu, arrived and saw the "masterpiece," his reaction was swift and fiery. He looked at the painting, cursed under his breath, and declared that my accidental brushstroke was, to put it simply, a "cagada"—a blunder of monumental proportions.
But here's where the story takes an unexpected twist. Despite the catastrophe, Daniel won the competition. Yes, you read that right—he was awarded the coveted walkmachine and even had the honor of meeting the then-Governor of the Federal District. As for the painting, it was proudly displayed in his home, as a token of his triumph.
And here's the kicker: to this day, I maintain a rather unshakeable belief that Daniel only won because of my so-called "magical brushstroke." That little smudge? The thing that could’ve ruined everything? It was, in fact, the finishing touch that gave the painting its character, its "soul." Without that blotch, the judges might have been too impressed by the technical perfection of the work to appreciate its true charm. The truth is, that little imperfection might have been just what the judges needed to see—the human touch, the authenticity that transcends mere technique.
So now, whenever I visit Daniel’s house, I can’t help but glance at that painting hanging on the wall. The "magical brushstroke" still lingers there, a reminder of my unintentional role in his artistic journey. And I smile to myself, knowing that sometimes, it's the mistakes that lead to the greatest victories.