Meliorism

Painting Eyes

I take one step back from the canvas and give myself time to look at what I’ve been working on for the last five hours. I try so hard to convince myself that this is enough, that this should be considered art, but I see only an incomprehensible mess of colors and no art whatsoever. Flicking the paintbrush between my index finger and middle finger, I allow myself to release one audible sigh. I look at the wall clock hanging above my mess of a studio. It’s half-past two in the afternoon. The room is hot as hell and gives all signs that, yes, another supposedly productive day has gone to waste.

Last night I told myself that I’d spend all of tomorrow working on the entry for the Art Festival Contest that the town hall is administering. I wouldn’t look at it as such a big deal—competitions almost never matter to me—but this one offers a huge amount of cash to whoever earns the first-place award. Summer has just started and I need it to survive. That or I’ll have to take a summer job at the local diner along the highway.

I slump back on the tattered couch—which my mother donated to my apartment after she realized it wasn’t worth to be part of her house—and reach for my phone from the foldable wooden table sitting a feet away from me. No text messages.

I drop the phone onto my lap and take one last look at my canvas. It’s an image of a starry night. At least three-fourths of the painting is just streetlights and overgrown shrubbery, and in the middle the silhouette of a couple is subtly placed. It was too late when I realized that the idea is unimaginative and has been used so many times before. Besides, it probably wouldn’t strike the town hall judges much anyway.

I need something to paint, and I need it now.

I take my phone and start dialing Marcy’s number.

Marcy’s been my friend since middle school. We’re not exactly best friends; we do not really care much for each other. But when one needs help, the other makes all ends meet to make sure that one gets it.

She picks up on the fifth ring. “Hey.”

“You sound like you just woke up,” I say. “Did you just wake up?”

“Hey,” she says again, less disgruntled this time. “Yeah.”

“I really need to go to town today, and I need someone to drive me.”

“Okay,” Marcy says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “’Okay’ as in ‘I’ll be there in a few.’” She hangs up.

I get up and into the shower.

-

Waiting for Marcy to arrive, I’m given a chance to take a look at my apartment. I’ve only been here for two weeks. There are still boxes waiting to be opened and furniture waiting to be set up. I haven’t even brought the TV set my dad got me as a “moving-out gift” out of its box. It’s not that I haven’t had the time, just that I’m too preoccupied with the town hall contest to be bothered fixing my own life.

I glance at my wristwatch. It’s been an hour since Marcy said she’d be here in a few. I guess “a few” to her doesn’t mean minutes.

All this waiting and not having anything else to do is giving me so much time to think. College will start in a few weeks and I still haven’t completely settled down. My mom was able to find this nice two-bedroom apartment, one that provides enough space for my studio, but I can’t help feeling homesick. Compared to my house, this place is crummy. Other than that feeling of homesickness, though, I think it’s safe to say that I’m feeling absolutely well. I’m taking up Fine Arts. I’ve always wanted to take up Fine Arts. It’s my passion; I’ve always wanted to do it as a kid. I’m lucky that I’ll be able to pursue my dream. But what if it doesn’t work out? What if my course is not enough to get me through the rest of my life?