Painted-tcl

Painted -- Prologue

For me, it truly was as easy as taking air into my lungs—painting. I could sit for hours in relative silence, the only sounds being the intermittent gentle brushes of the bristles on taught canvas, entirely content. My happy place was not a physical location, but really anywhere with a brush in hand and a sky to paint. I adored painting the sky, or landscapes in general. They never fidgeted or became impatient or shot me disgruntled expressions when i took too long or they didn't like the way they turned out at my hand.
Actually, that was a lie. Nature was even harder to capture than the human form, I was pretty sure. This was because of its constant changeability. The clouds refused to remain suspended and still until your brush had captured their form, and the breeze often decided to actively impede my process by forcing the flowers or trees to thrash back and forth or send the aforementioned clouds skittering across the sky in a myriad of different directions, the shapes I had been set on painting dissipating forever. It was undoubtably frustrating, as I could not snap back at the wind, remind it that it should obey me if it wished to be captured—immortalised—in oil on canvas. No, the wind manipulated the landscape as it pleased, forcing me to adapt to the temperamental environment. I had to sketch quickly, not doubting my hand as I took down the precise moment that I desired to have forever at your fingertips or on your wall. I was also a firm believer that this mandatory self-assurance had a tendency to spill over into other facets of my life. The only aspect of myself that knew patience was the hand that held the paintbrush, the rest of me was erratic and perennially living in the moment.
This lifestyle made school, and the rest of my life, constantly challenging. The teachers for most of my subjects hated me for my neverending procrastination.
"No," i'd protest, trying to hand in a paper at the last possible minute, knowing the rushed effort was sub-par at best but I had to pass the class if I wanted to stay in your Arts course, "you see, I watched this really good TED talk about procrastination, and like, there's this instant gratification monkey, and—"
They rarely let me finish, but if anyone ever did ask me why I habitually condemned myself to sleepless nights and unhealthy stress levels due to my 'seize the day!' attitude, I felt comforted that I had a sufficient answer to at least get them off my back.
The only thing I was inclined to spend my time perfecting was my art. I was more than happy to spend hours adding shading and dimension to something that would have been fine in its original incarnation, but struggled to spend more than ten minutes with a book in hand or a pen to paper or in a conversation without losing interest or feeling the impulse to do something else. Some may dub me unsettled or undependable, I preferred to view yourself through nice, rose tinted lenses. Perhaps exciting or adaptable were nicer words. The perspective through those glasses made living with yourself easier, anyway.

I'd expressed these sentiments to a friend, one day. She'd replied rather dismissively, "But it's all right to hate yourself." I had been understandably taken aback. "You're an artist. You're meant to be depressed."
"That's awful."
"That's reality."
I dissatisfied with this perceived reality, though. I would much rather feel inspired by the skies of the evenings in autumn, when the sun drenched everything in a beautiful, mellow pink that soothed my perpetually racing mind and calmed me in a way that the oppressive grey of a thundering sky would never be able to manage. I wanted to paint lovely things through a rapturous lens. I also wanted to avoid being so caught up in my own angsty, artistic turmoil that I decided to cut my own ear off. I didn't want my sanity Van Gogh-ing anywhere, thanks.
And sanity comes from happiness. And essays never equate to happiness.
Maybe, I pondered, this is all my instant gratification monkey, justifying my irrational actions. I banished the idea. If painting was my form of procrastination, then I didn't mind. It was relaxing, the one thing I felt I was truly good at, the one thing that grasped my attention firmly with both hands and held me captive until Angie had to claw me away from the canvas, reminding me that I need to eat and sleep in order to be able to get up and paint again tomorrow.