I stood back one more time to admire it.I had just finished the painting that Donna's gallery had commissioned and was once again checking to see if there were any areas that needed touching up.

There weren't any.

It was perfect.

Or, as perfect as I could make it.

I knew that I could spend a year doing "touch-ups" on it. I've known people that never finished a work because it was never "just right." They'd always be "adding this or taking away that." A few swipes of red here-- no that was too much-- I need more black to off set the red now. On and on they go, chasing their tails, never leaving well enough alone.

Not me with this piece.

After what had gone on with Mike at lunch, I didn't think I could come up with anything worth while. I based my first idea around the notion that Mike would be my model. When he backed out, I had no back up. I just stood there in front of the canvas, staring at it. Its vast expanse of white scaring the shit out of me. It was as if it was laughing at me-- telling me that it knew I could never come up with anything that could fill it up.

Then it happened. It was just like some artists say-- that every work of art has already been done and that it's just floating around waiting for somebody to channel it to the canvas.

I know that it sounds lame, but that's what happened.

It hit me like a thunder bolt. One moment I was standing there doing nothing. The next, my paint filled brush covered the canvas in a burst of creative energy. It was like someone had found a switch on my back and turned it on.

The picture just poured out of me.

It was the best work I'd ever done.

And from what I felt inside as I looked at it, I knew it wouldn't be the last.