She stood behind a rather large canvas with paint splattered all over her clothes. It was peculiar, honestly. She got more paint on her clothes than on the canvas. I wondered how the painting would turn out. I suppose I didn’t necessarily care, my mother had demanded I get the painting done. The painter happened to be a young girl, around eleven. When I first saw her my mother simply said ‘There is no correlation between age and artistic ability and you have no right to assume such.’ Of course I hadn’t said anything, I believe my mother chose this girl to test me.

“Look toward the window please,” the girl said.

“Why, aren’t you painting me in this pose?” The girl tilted her head and raised her brow.

“I need to paint your eyes,” she said.

“You’ll see my eyes worse if I look to the side.” The girl looked upset but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She crossed her arms and looked at me.

“I need to paint your eyes with better lighting, so they have a glint in them.”

I crossed my arms as well and looked at her, “I don’t want my eyes to have a glint, just paint me as you see me. That way I can have a real painting.”

She sighed and put down her brush, it was honesty silly for this little girl to act so grown up. She pulled out her phone, which had a pink, glittery case. This was a very peculiar situation, as if I was in a dream. A little girl with the newest model of a phone, was painting me. I thought for a moment she was going to call her mother to bring her home. Instead she brought the phone up above the canvas and took a picture of me, she stood behind the painting a while before stepping out and showing me the picture with my arms crossed, eyes mean, and whole body tense.

“Is this what you wanted?” She asked.

“Well that isn’t fair, you caught me at my worst.”

“And I suppose your best would be looking out the window?” I looked at her, my eyes raging. Then, I turned around and faced the window.

A few moments later the girl called out, “Done!”

I turned over and looked as she revealed the painting. It was- peculiar. The way the painting stared back at me, how the rough brush strokes felt exhilarating, action within a still, calm piece. It felt more like me then any picture or mirror.

“Wow,” I said.

The girl blushed and smiled, “It’s childish right?”

“I suppose I’m deserving of it,” that’s what is was, the glare of a young girl in the eyes of the painting. It was a very disembodying experience, to look at what I was, to see how I really looked.