Where It Leads Us

Chapter Seventeen

I generally viewed Louis Wain's artwork and how the majority of people believed his concept of art was odd given that the majority of his paintings featured cats. I never really understood it either until we dove deeper into his background.

Louis Wain's artwork portrayed his mental illness. He never received a clinical or formal diagnosis of schizophrenia, despite the fact that many people thought he had that kind of condition. His latter works, according to some, showed signs of psychosis.

For an instance, Cat with Cat Necklace. The colors aren't that appealing, and it seems like a kaleidoscope. The more you gaze at it, the more perplexing and unsettling it gets. I watched a YouTube video that was randomly recommended to me. Its title was Weird Art of The Mentally Disturbed. The speaker says, "only when the schizophrenic can draw or paint their thoughts that we get a real glimpse into the true horror of their condition."

I think when people learn to understand the definition of schizophrenia, the concept doesn't entirely take hold in their thoughts. But, when you show them, an artwork created by a person who is mentally ill or schizophrenic, some interpret it as a nightmare, which is how, I think, schizophrenia is experienced by most schizophrenics.

Sometimes I stress the thought of how regular people would perceive us. What if people treat and see us as though we are unable to function normally? I gave my condition a lot of thought, and the truth is that most people with mental illnesses find it difficult to accept reality. A reality where some of us are unable to function without the medications that were prescribed to us and a reality where others do perceive us as a threat.

Personally, I feel like I'm losing contact with reality and falling further and deeper into a hole that I didn't even know I was in. Despite the fact that mental illness has been around for generations, there are people who still push to view it as a myth.

I usually avoid comparing my mental illness to that of others who have the same diagnosis as I am because schizophrenia shows itself differently for each person with the condition. Although, occasionally when I watch videos on YouTube about schizophrenic people being interviewed about their day-to-day lives, a part of me feels jealous since they seem to be doing well and they don't seem to let it consume them the way mine does, sometimes.

"Why didn't you participate in the activity earlier?" Ms. Wilson asked and I hear her pen tapping on the thick pile of paper in front of her.

I recalled the conversation I had with Ms. Wilson earlier at school. Mrs. Bennet told Ms. Wilson about what had happened in art class earlier.

I looked at the white canvas before me, the paintbrush trembling in my fingers, and I was vaguely aware that I was wandering out of my body. Everyone in the class before me seemed to enjoy painting. Everyone but me.

Ms. Wilson furrows her eyebrows and said, "You can't paint, or you don't want to paint? You know, there's a difference between the two."

I found a few of the sketches I had made over the previous years as I turned over my old sketchbook, laid it down on the desk in front of me, and turned on my lamp desk. Dad got me the sketching pad as a birthday present six or seven years ago. He says the more he observes me gazing and admiring my mom's art, the more he sees a vision of me painting like her.

I took a deep breath, fumbled in my desk drawer for a pencil, and then closed my eyes. Trying to reach that inner serenity and connection, I gently imagine what I might start sketching as I breathe in the air and exhale it out.

I felt so sure about what I wanted to create earlier—a drawing of something significant that was ingrained in my thoughts. But as the minutes pass, I start to become frustrated because of my lack of ideas.

When I suddenly felt the need and want to paint after a two-year hiatus as soon as I came rushing home, I thought it was too good to be true.

" If you're having trouble coming up with ideas, think of anything that may be either non-living or living. Afterward, take into account the object's aura. What form does this line have? How does it curve? How does the thing respond to the light? Try to connect the dots and keep in mind that creativity has a connection with the power of the unknown. It inspires your imagination and, more likely, the motivation you might just need."

As I try to imagine what my mind wants me to paint or what the "unknown" has in store for me to paint into reality, Mrs. Bennet's words echoed in my thoughts.

Great outcomes come from the greater unknown. Whenever I feel frustrated about having an empty canvas for hours while I sat next to her as she paints, my mom generally says this to me. I didn't understand what she meant then, but I knew now that there is a greater potential that the result is better if you take the shot of stepping into the unknown.

For what seemed like a lifetime, I began to sketch as soon as I opened my eyes. Each sketch gets a little bit more polished and exact as I continue to fill out the canvas. I make the composition better by removing pointless curves and making sure that everything is defined by a plain yet simple shape.

I pulled out the other art supplies I had stored in my closet for years and I instantly whiffed the stinging smell of chemical-like old paints and the earthy slap of linseed oil that had been dried up; things that had me wonderstruck for painting.

I start my last sketch with a ginger orange col-erase pencil. My mom claims that col-erase pencils are ideal for sketching drawings on bristol boards because, as their name suggests, they can be easily erased. Because it's a colored pencil, it's even somewhat lighter than a black graphite pencil.

After the orange outline is complete, I often go back in with my black graphite pencils and draw clean, precise lines over the orange lines. I dropped the pencil, which causes me to slump in my chair and stare admiringly at the result that I thought would leave me with an empty canvas before and after attempting to paint again.

I did it. I finally did it.

I find myself smiling at the finished product. Next on the agenda is to paint the most challenging part. The final boss of the whole "being artsy" stage.

"What are you doing—"

As soon as the door swings open, Zania enters my room without hearing her knock. She sees the sketch I made that was sitting on my desk. She stares at me then points at it, "Is that... Did you just...?"

I nodded my head, smiling triumphantly, "Yeah. I did that," I said.

Zania admires the sketch-like I did and carefully walks over to me with her hand on her hip.

"Lauren, I'm so proud of you," she says as our eyes locked in a shared understanding.

I smiled at her, "You think Elise would be?"

"I'm sure Elise would be, too."

I hope. I hope.

***