It was a random afternoon when the Writer came across her flatmate, busy with her laptop and digital tablet. As she looked at what the Artist was doing, she couldn't comprehend what was being drawn.
She mused if it was a collection of colors that should form into art or just random paint splatters on a white canvas.
"I don't understand art," the Writer said, watching how the Artist was working intently on.
"Well, I do," the Artist responded, eyes still on her monitor. The usual happy-go-lucky demeanor was set aside as she focused on her work.
The stern Writer nodded. "You're an artist. You live and breathe art. I'm just a writer—"
"And I don't understand a writer's mind." A digital pen was pointed towards the Writer's face. "So we're even."
The Writer shrugged. "I don't understand art." She looked at the Artist with a curious glint in her usually cold looking eyes. "But I do understand you."
"Really now? This is surprising. Do tell," the Artist challenged, grinning at the pokerfaced Writer.
The Writer nodded, taking the challenge that the artist laid upon her. "Yes, I find it amusing how you stick the tip of your tongue out when focusing on your drawing. Or how you squint your eyes when erasing a part of it. And how your eyes twinkled when you see other artists – mostly your favorites – share their works online." The Writer raked her fingers over her hair, showing her brown colored eyes that gazed on the Artist's childish grin.
The Artist agreed to what the Writer said and placed her digital pen down. It was one of the rare moments they had in which they weren't hurling items at each other or throwing banters here and there. "Then let me tell you this... I understand how you become twitchy when you crave for coffee and you can't think of what to write. Oh how you're irritated when you're forcing yourself to write something. How you bite your thumb when you're anxiously waiting for a review. How your face contorts to several different emotions when you're in the middle of writing but unable to express anything when faced with another person. How your nose flares when you receive a bad review or how you show a triumphant grin when your works are approved."
The Writer and the Artist stared at each other for a few seconds and then laughed after their small conversation. The Artist laughed while the Writer softly chuckled.
"I may not understand art-"
"I may not understand a writer's mind-"
"But I do understand you," Two creative people said in unison; one with a wide grin while the other had a small smile.
"Do you want to understand art?" the Artist asked the Writer who was busy working on her personal computer. "Like do you want me to tell you what's behind Mona Lisa's smile or teach you how to look at abstract paintings without thinking 'what is this shit'?"
"No," the Writer whose eyes were glued on her computer monitor and typing on her keyboard like a jackhammer, said stoically.
"I don't want to because I can't. I have no talent," she added, not sparing the Artist a glance.
The Artist grinned. "You're a talented writer though." She peered at what the Writer was working on and caught a glimpse of the plot after reading a few lines.
"Beauty and the Beast?" she questioned, recognizing the flow of the story.
The Writer nodded. "With a twist, yeah. Had this idea about it and I had to write it before I forget the whole plot." She paused to delete a sentence, and started again, fingers imitating a nail gun on a board. "And no, I'm not a talented writer. I'm just a skilled writer. Talent is born with such skill. I, on the other hand, learned how to write in a so-so level. I had near passing marks in my English classes since grade school to college, so grammar isn't really something I would be proud of. So, no. I'm not a talented writer."
"Still, you write well if what you say is true. Grammar and all." The Artist peered at what the writer was typing.
"Anyway, do you want to understand art?" The Artist asked again.
The Writer stopped typing and turned to the artist. "Why do you ask? Are you offering your services to me?" she asked with a cocked brow.
The Artist gave the writer a double 'thumbs-up' gesture.
"Very well..." The Writer returned to her work and started typing again, "My answer is no."
The Artist laughed and took some paper and a pen on the writer's work table, and settled herself on the Writer's bed. With the materials in hand, she started a drawing random doodles while the Writer continued her work.
And thus begins the story of a Writer and an Artist, living in an apartment.
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