s p l i n t e r e d

chapter t h r e e

"One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy." ― Virginia Woolf.

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I pick up a paintbrush four days after, and I decide I should paint something.  There's a familiar itch in my fingertips, and I'm tired of all the classes on art theory, and art history. Art is organic; something that you feel, not study.

I've worked through the boxes in the bedroom and folded away the piles of clothing, in an effort to come to terms with the fact that I'm here, for good, and Baba isn't. Homesickness wasn't something that Baba and I dreamed of, when we dreamed about NYU, and I feel like a child again, glued to his side, with his large hand enclosing mine. But I'm not six anymore, so the boxes are gone, and there is space, now, to fill my room with all the thoughts in my head.

The week has been arduous. There are more classes on my timetable than I anticipated - more late night readings and papers than I care for, but I've worked so hard to even be here, that I can't bring myself to slack. So the week has been filled non-stop with readings on the Renaissance and devices of Da Vinci, and now all I want is a release from it.

I stretch out; releasing the tension in my shoulders; rolling my neck so I don't get kinks. Art is a flow. It's a mindset. I need the right space, the right environment. I position the easel so that the light from the window falls over the blank, unprimed canvas, and switch on the desk lamp that I purchased from Walmart for extra light. The sky is clouded grey, outside. To the left, there's a rag to wipe my brushes. To the right, my art trolley, and a jar of fresh water, and a palette with dried paints forming a Pollock.

I choose a brush where the handle is thicker in the middle. It fits in the dents of my fingers, where wood has worn into them over the years of holding pencils to sketch, and brushes to paint. The brush is flat. Angular. Various flecks of paint decorate its mantle. I dip it in the water, and watch the synthetic bristles glisten.

A wash is an underlayer, traditionally, of paint and water. It can be wet on wet, or wet on dry. I prefer the latter, smoothing out the canvas with the base of my hand, before applying the brush to the slight ridges on its surface.

The green is a composition of phthalo blue and primary yellow. An ochre yellow will turn the mixture into something mouldy, and an ultramarine blue will make the green brownish, like leaves in the fall.

The green I make is somewhere between emerald and juniper. It is both vibrant, but somehow muted, and it is the shade of the jungle from the other morning.

I can't stop thinking about it. In religion, dreams have meaning. But this wasn't a dream, because I wasn't asleep. I was in the shower, even if I can't remember getting in.

But that's not all. There's a feeling that has settled in my chest, and I can't shake it. It's the feeling of familiarity.

I release the breath pent up in my lungs. Reach over, and press play on my speaker.

The soft tones of Daughter ring out. The gently strumming of a guitar. The ghostly singing of a woman.

I dip my brush into the carefully mixed paint, and then dip it into the jar of water. I watch the precise moment that the tip of the bristles touch the surface of the water. How a spot of green becomes a flourish, and curls through the liquid. Soon, the colour spreads. Once the brush is soaked, I swipe it across the canvas. A wash of light, watery green coats the blank canvas. Water drips. The brush strokes bleed into one another.