Art was my first love and so far has been my only. Nothing brings me better happiness than painting in my art studio.
The first time I fell in love with art was when I was five. My parents had just divorced and my father had just moved out. My mother took my sobbing five year old self to Mrs. Robin, an art instructor in our town. Mrs. Robin was amazing. She knew what I was going through at home.
She sat me in a little stool in the corner of the class, and handed me a blank paper and paints on a pallet. She put a brush next to my stool. The only thing she said to me was, "Do whatever feels right." And I did.
I dipped my brush into red paint and slashed a mark all over my white paper. It felt strangely amazing. I mixed it into orange and yellow paints, not caring that I was mixing the colors. I let the brush carry me. I swirled lines, and jabbed dots which caused the ends of the brush to split. And by the time it was time to take my picture home, I had already decided that I was going to do art for the rest of my life.
My painting was missing something. It was nagging me, but I just couldn't figure out what it was. It was a picture of a boat at sea. It had taken me days to complete. I had to use a flat knife to replicate the texture of the waves, and I had to mix my acrylic paint into water to paint out the smaller details on the boat. The ruts of the wood, the slight curl of the white sail, every detail mattered.
I realized what it was. The painting was just a snapshot. Never had my paintings ever been snapshots of life, that's what you have a camera for. There was always a story behind them. And this painting was boring. This was the kind of painting that people would look at in an art gallery, for a few seconds and move onto the next one.
My paintings were the type that made you think. They had substance to them, a whole explanation behind the canvas.
Sometimes I felt as if that applied to people as well. There are people who are just pretty to look at, no substance whatsoever. All talk, no meaning. And then there are people who seem like average ones, but in reality they have an entire world brewing behind their masks of quiet and calm.
I slowly outlined purple tentacles in the corner most section of the canvas. They curled out of the water just by the boat. The purple color added a splash of contrast to the dull colors of the painting.
I finished the painting off with a thin layer of enamel spray. I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I was pretty satisfied with what I had done. I slowly picked up the painting, and hung it on a nail on my wall of art. It was in line with the other paintings which covered the wall fully.
"Amara!" My mother called from the doorway. I jerked suddenly. "You've been cooped up in there all morning honey!" she said walking towards me. She stopped beside me to admire my wall of paintings. "Oh is that your latest creation?" she asked, motioning towards the painting I had just finished. I nodded.
"You do realize you have a whole mess to clean up right?" she said, putting her hands on her hips, and I looked around realizing she was right. My art studio was cluttered with easels that needed to be put away, paintbrushes with hardened crusts of paint strewn all over the floor, and colored cups of water placed in each corner.
I groaned, throwing up my hands. "Cut me a little slack mom!" I protested. She wagged her finger at me. "Hey, even Picasso had to clean up his messes."
"Plus," and her voice lost that humorous quality. She bent down to help me collect paint utensils. "You'd think you'd ought to spend a little more time with your mom since you're going away to sleep-away art camp in a few days."
I felt guilt pinch at my gut. I had recently won a scholarship to Camp Prodigy, an intensive sleep away camp for artists. It had been a super tough application process. But I had always been so busy painting, I had forgotten to spend time with my mother.
"Sorry mom," I said earnestly, wiping my fingers on my forlorn jeans. "It's only three weeks."
Mom came over and dropped a kiss on my forehead. "I love you Mara, and I'm so proud that you're working towards your dream."
I hugged her tightly. She left me to be, and I began to clean up my studio.
YOU ARE READING
Under the Stars
Romance14 year old Amara Bailey had never imagined anything outside her world of Art. She was an artist, who's life revolved around her paintings. Amara can paint anything, but she can't paint over her scars still unhealed. She wants a fresh start. But thi...
