An artist’s biggest fear is a blank piece of paper.

As she presses the pen’s pointed tip to the page, and closes her eyes, the image behind them echoes what she will see in front of her – an empty page. She waits for ideas but no cloud of illumination, nebulous or lucid, hits her mind. The blank paper intimidates her with its whiteness, sheer void of emotion, and in fact, of everything. She opens her eyes. No idea has come to her, but in the trust that it will, she allows herself a swirl, or a letter, or maybe just a wobbly circle in the corner of the page.

That does it. The paper, blank no more, draws her in; invites her to fill it up. From that one tiny shape, lines emerge, lines in every direction. The lines dance together, swaying to an imperceptible music. They pirouette, they jam, they run. They rush together in one, they radiate like the rays of a sun, and they twist in among themselves like an endless snake. They are one and they are many. They are abrupt and they are ever ending. Sometimes, the pen tilts so the line is soft and light, like a kitten’s fur, and sometimes, ink is pressed onto the paper so hard that there’s an imprint on the other side, the line is hard and unforgiving. Her pen moves without stopping, dots the swirl all around, stripes the empty circle, and fills in the checks. Shapes merge together like paint, mixing, becoming one. They harmonise like instruments in an orchestra, like layers of lasagne, each vital to the whole.

She lifts her pen and sees for the first time what she has created.

The paper is blank no more.