I heard once that if you stare at a painting for long enough, it’ll stare back at you.

Whoever I heard that from must have been a rat-faced liar. Cuz I was doing an awful lot of staring at this painting, and the only thing I felt was bored.

Okay, point of clarification--I did feel a pair of eyes on me. But they weren’t from the painting. Paintings don’t have eyes, and this painting didn’t even have a painting of eyes.

The eyes I felt were Rarity’s. She stood behind me, pretending to look at the painting, but also very obviously gauging my reaction. Which was insane. She already knew what my reaction was gonna be.

She just wanted me to suffer. Because she’s crazy.

She and I have this thing going on. Twice a year, we meet up in Canterlot for a weekend retreat. We each program a whole day’s worth of our favorite activities, and drag the other pony along for the ride.

The idea was to get out of our cultural comfort zones and try new things. Yesterday, I had Rarity sleep in til noon, then go to a hoofball game.

Today, she took me to an art gallery. Me. Rainbow Dash. To an art gallery.

She’s crazy.

“The colors are so fascinating,” Rarity murmured.

I shrugged. “I thought paintings were supposed to have more colors.”

“It doesn’t have to be as vibrant as your mane to make a valid artistic statement.”

“Yeah, but there’s only three colors. And they’re barely colors.”

“They’re called pastels.”

“It’s like they don’t even want to be colors.” Another set of eyes fell on me. This time it was the security guard. Maybe my voice might have gotten a little bit loud just then. Whatever. Isn’t art supposed to make you feel something? What am I supposed to do, just bottle all my feelings up or something?

Art museums were so lame.

I looked around for a clock. There was one on the other side of the wall, but it was just another painting, and it was melting.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” I asked.

“There’s two more exhibits I’d like to see.”

I groaned and turned my attention to the museum pamphlet I’d picked up at the entrance. The logo of the Modern Art Institute of Canterlot decorated the front. Inside, I found the title of this exhibit: Impressionism and Impresarios.

For what these paintings cost, I could only hope the impresarios were impressed with the impressionists’ impressions. Cuz I wasn’t.

“Bet you ten bits I could do that,” I said, gesturing to the painting.

All of a sudden, Rarity got this devious look in her eye, and I knew I’d screwed up. Before I could take it back, she said, “You know what, I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“Uh--you want me to be an impresario?”

“I think we should get some canvases and let out our crafty side.”

Oh yeah, I’d really screwed up. “Hang on. We’re supposed to go to that tea shop after this. You raved all morning about it.”

Her eyes were full of fire now. Dread filled my heart, cold and silent as the room we stood in. I knew there was no stopping this train now.

And I knew that because I knew this: she’s crazy.

We left the museum and made our way to a nearby crafts store. Instead of big canvases like the ones in the museum, Rarity opted for six smaller canvases.

“Just in case we have to start over,” she said.

We went back to her boutique in the heart of Canterlot and requisitioned a back room and put some tarps down and set the canvases up and--

And all of a sudden, there was a blank canvas in front of me, and a brush in my hoof. And I had to reconsider what that one pony said about staring at art, cuz this canvas was looking at me.

“Go ahead,” Rarity said. “Try your best.”

The smirk on her face let me know the stakes. My pride was on the line.

So I took a deep breath and covered the canvas with three wide horizontal brush strokes.

“There,” I said, stepping back so she could admire my work.

Rarity covered her mouth, but I still heard the laugh slip out.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Dear, I really don’t mean to be harsh. but--look at it.”

“I’m looking. It’s three lines. That’s what we bet on.”

“Fair. You painted three lines. But the lines aren’t straight, and they’re splotchy.”

Okay, she had a point. I dipped my brush into the paint and went for another coat, but I forgot to wipe the brush off before I went in and the colors came out all brown and gross-looking.

“How about instead of ten bits, you buy the first round of tea?” Rarity suggested.

“Give me another canvas,” I muttered, and went to work.

My next try was much better than the first. The lines were much straighter this time. But the colors looked kinda funny together. The first one was too dark, and the third one was hardly there at all. The middle one looked pretty nice--what had she called it before? Pastry? Pastrami? Pastel, right--but it couldn’t overcome being sandwiched between the ugliness of the other two.

Rarity handed me my third canvas. “Last chance,” she said.

Sweat broke out on the back of my neck. “Whaddaya mean? There’s three more canvases.”

“I didn’t buy these all for you, dear. Three for you and three for me. We’re having fun together, remember?”

“Why don’t you start, then?”

“I think I’ll save mine for another time. Your work’s just so engrossing.”

I grumbled something unintelligible and narrowed my focus. This time I knew what to do. I mixed the colors on a piece of white construction paper to get a feel for what the colors looked like together. Then I borrowed a pencil and traced two horizontal lines into the canvas as guides.

Then, with my breath held, I cleaned my brush, double-checked my colors, said a silent prayer, and painted.

Thirty seconds later, it was over. I stepped back and wiped the sweat off my face and admired my work. The lines were straight. The colors looked nice and pastel-y. It was a dead ringer for the original in the museum.

Much to my surprise, Rarity agreed. “You have an artist’s eye,” she said as he admired my work.

I held the painting up so it caught the light. “I wonder if the museum would hang it up next to the big one if I gave it to them.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. The establishment looks down on derivative works.”

“Oh.”

“But perhaps you’d sell it to me? I’d love to hang it up in my shop.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, of course. I’d even pay commission for it.”

“Really?”

Rarity pulled out ten bits from her purse. “Will this cover it?”

I smiled coyly. “How about you buy us some of those little scone-thingies from the tea shop instead?”

“Fair deal. We better leave right now, then.”

As we were leaving, I paused to take one last look at my creation.

“What are you looking at?” I jeered.

I puffed out my chest and fluffed up my wings and backed out the door slowly without breaking eye contact, and that little canvas dared not stare back.