The Art of Redemption

03 | Kimani

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KITTY
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I stood in my professor's cluttered office, where creativity clung to the walls in the form of paintings, sculptures, and sketches. Each piece had carved its niche, a testament to the tapestry of artistry here.

Amid scattered art supplies, brushes awaited, eager to touch canvas once more. Tubes of paint lined up, ready for the artist's command.

This room was a sanctuary for artistic exploration, where organized chaos inspired.

Raising my gaze, I met Claude Van Buren's steady stare. Behind thick-rimmed glasses, his eyes held years of wisdom and critique, like a curator assessing a masterpiece's value. Dark hair neatly slicked back added an air of seriousness, a reminder that art was a journey of the soul.

"Kim, let's discuss your painting," he began, pointing to the canvas on the easel.

A shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. "Is there an issue?" I asked, my voice trembling, eyes locked on the canvas. Four nights of passion and turmoil had gone into its creation.

A heavy silence filled the room, pregnant with expectation.

"It's not quite what I expected," he finally spoke, a faint frown tugging at his features. "I anticipated more impact. Your painting lacks the emotional depth I've come to associate with your work. Honestly, I am disappointed."

My heart sank. His words pierced like a dagger. I'd poured my heart into every stroke, each hue representing a facet of my soul. "But I did pour my emotions into it," I protested, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap, expression softened. "I can see the effort, Kimani. But this piece feels... restrained. Your previous works carried raw energy and emotion. This seems like mere splashes with nothing tethering them."

The lump in my throat threatened to choke me, tears welling like a dam about to burst. "I wanted it to be different," I replied, voice quivering.

He sighed, his gaze full of understanding. "I appreciate your desire for growth, but sometimes, in our pursuit of new horizons, we overlook what made our previous work compelling."

A surge of anger boiled within me. How could he not see the countless hours of contemplation, the emotional agony etched into every stroke? "You don't understand," I snapped, frustration dripping from my words. "I pushed myself beyond limits with every brush stroke. I poured my soul into this, and you're saying it's not enough."

"Kimani," he began, his voice measured, "I'm not saying it's inadequate. I'm saying it's different. And that's not necessarily a flaw. Art isn't just technique; it's about conveying something deeper, something that resonates."

Tears blurred my vision. "I thought I was doing that," I muttered, my voice barely audible.

He leaned forward, sincerity in his eyes. "Your dedication is unquestionable. But sometimes, our intentions don't translate as we hope. This isn't a reflection of your talent; it's a step in your artistic journey."

I shook my head, tears flowing freely. "I can't believe this, what the actual hell, sir?" I whispered, emotions laid bare.

"Kimani, please," he implored, his voice gentle. "Art is about growth, adaptation, and reevaluation. Use this feedback as a stepping stone, a way to refine your creative voice. You're an exceptional artist, Kimani."

Frustration coursed through me, fists clenched. "I can't even bear to look at it anymore," I admitted, voice breaking.

He sighed, a sympathetic smile on his lips. "Take your time, Kimani. Step away for a while. When you return, you might see it with fresh eyes. You're one of my best students, and I can't afford to lose your perspective."

But I wasn't ready to accept his advice, not when the colors on my canvas had faded into self-doubt. I grabbed my bag, face flushed with embarrassment and anger. "I appreciate your critique," I said, voice strained, "but right now, I need to step away from it all."

His gaze softened, a beacon of understanding. "That's entirely fine, Kimani. Take the time you need."

With that, I left his office, my heart heavy with disappointment and confusion, wondering if I had lost touch with the very essence of what made me an artist.

Was I losing my touch?

For fuck sake I lived for painting, now wasn't the time for me to loose touch of what I enjoyed doing.

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