She sits typing up the figures at her computer, enjoying the rhythm from the gentle clacking of keys as she works. The reassuring monotony of the sound allowing her mind to wander as it so often did whilst she was working this way. There were never limitations - nothing was too small or large that it did not have a place to be turned over in her mind: simple pleasures such as that delicious smell of warmth and home that wafted through her rooms after she had attempted to bake her first loaf, all the way to taking herself miles away, to a calm beach at evening. It could have been anywhere, she didn’t have somewhere in mind this time, but she could see it vividly – the quiet lapping of the waves against the sand and the vibrant oranges and pinks sending coloured lights rippling in lines across the soft waves. Suddenly the images disperse as the sounds of chairs being pulled out brake her away from her thoughts, signifying the end of the day. She lifts herself up with a long stretch, turns to say goodbye to the other people in her office and glides out of the building.
She decides today she will walk home – see the town, picturesque as it was breathing around the melted crystals of snow from that morning. Bundled up warmly in a thick jumper and scarf she wanders down the glittering white-flaked pavements, watching the swirls of air rise in front of her with every breath she takes. Today she finds herself drawn into a shop selling canvases and large photographs, as she realised she would like to decorate the walls of her house with these intricate splashes of paint and the beautiful light filled lines and shapes of the photos. After a while she decides on a couple and takes her new purchases off with her: one canvas of shimmering silvery paint with vivid red cherry blossoms scattered delicately across; another, a forest with bursts of light seeping in between the dark black branches.
At last she reaches her flat. Instinctively she strides over to the kitchen area and flicks the switch on the kettle. Now for something new, she decides, peering into a cupboard crammed with box after box of different teas: herbal infusions, delicate white and greens, Chinese loose-leaf tea she could barely pronounce the names of despite her numerous attempts to flick through phrasebooks in order to find some engagement with another language. Her failings at these languages had only fuelled her mission to find a way of communicating with everyone, no matter what walk of life, a shared engagement with something beautiful. Evidence of this could be seen littered around her small, cluttered home. Entangled within the thick blankets, squashy chairs and scattered ornaments lay previous spontaneous investments and interests: recipe books from all over the world, a piano with pages of yellowing music scores draping over the sides, books of architecture and anthropology from any country you could think of. She revelled in it, her small flat seeming like the meeting point of east and west, of the ancient and the modern. It was a home of culture and beauty and she loved it. Her parents, however, did not. On so many occasions had they visited sighing and shaking their heads at her ‘mess’. They still couldn’t believe that she could only afford this tiny place, and constantly reminded her that when her brother was her age he had already been promoted to head of his office. She merely smiled apologetically; she knew that she wasn’t what her family expected of her as high-achieving professionals. The thought of getting herself stressed about work and money so trivial to her when she could be spread across her sofa, reading, with a CD of piano music filling every space of the room.
Having chosen her tea she settles curled up on the sofa, legs wrapped around her, palms warming on the steaming mug. She pulls the pictures from her bag and looks more intently at them, tracing the lines with a finger, feeling the beauty in every stroke. She finds images forming themselves in her own mind – inspired and alike to these, but different, embodying her own character and feelings. She suddenly stands up and makes her way to the far corner of the room, dislodging a pile of papers to find some blank canvases and cases of paint, another impulse buy from a while ago and since neglected. Without thinking, she lifts a brush and begins to fill the stark whiteness with lines and colours and shapes and stories. She feels herself washed away with heightened feelings of excitement and serenity all at once. However, upon finishing, the picture doesn’t seem quite right: technically it isn’t that bad, she reasons; but the emotion, it isn’t there, it isn’t as she felt it. Undeterred, she tries again, and again.
One day, months from now, after long evenings after work spent on attempt after attempt at this obsession, she will stand in her own exhibition alongside her parents, filled with pride who will have long forgotten their misplaced aspirations they had forced upon their daughter. They will stand surrounded by the works of incredible beauty and depth that she created and shared with the world, coherent to all cultures and languages. And she will smile thinking how it was all born from a spontaneous trip into anther’s gallery, just like this one, that she had made one day on her way home from work.
