"Mary may have had a little lamb but Marie had a little lamp and she was going to put it to good use. She had lamp, a canvas, paint and an easel, a few quiet hours at night and an exhibition to claim."
She turned the lamp to a low setting—low settings always set the best mood—and took a few minutes to stare at the canvas. Sometimes that would be enough to get her started. There was so much promise on a blank canvas, and who was she to decide its fate without first giving it the opportunity to reveal it to her?
But when nothing appeared in her mind's eye, she sighed and turned her attention to the paints.
"Alright then, which color..."
A breeze gently waltzed into the room, twirling the nearby curtains a little too enthusiastically. As Marie closed her eyes to inhale the scent of fresh cut grass, the fabric flung its self through the green paint, and smacked it onto the canvas. When refocussed her gaze, she snorted at the resulting emerald smutch on the canvas.
"Note to self, don't conduct any more seances in the modern art museum," she muttered angrily.
"Ungrateful," the ghost muttered, the word but an unformed whisper dancing round the edges of the room. "Why summon me if you don't want my help?"
Marie glowered at the canvas, trying to figure out how she'd solve this one.
She dabbed her brush in the paint. "Maybe some blue will help even this out," she said to herself.
"No, that won't work," the ghost said as though it were annoyed. "Did you think there was no reason I cost green. Green!"
"Well perhaps if you told me what your intentions were, instead of throwing paint all over my work."
"Typical breather," the ghost huffed, rolling it's eyes, at least, Marie assumed it was, as the formless cool spot had no eyes. "Always wanting the answers without putting in any work. Do you think I simply painted for Picasso? Magritte? Mondrian?" "Yeah, well, maybe I don't have the time they had," Marie muttered. "And besides, did you not just hear that I'm not interested in abstract?"
"But life is an abstract. To not have time for the abstract is to not have time for life," the ghost explained.
"A philosophical ghost as an abstract painter, where did I go wrong?"
"Was that a rhetorical question, or a genuine one?" asked the ghost. "If it was genuine, then I can only assume the answer is at art school. Any artist who doesn't cast aside ninety per cent of what they learned there is on the wrong track, honestly."