Where the World Began

 

      The world began at the end of a summer. It was hot and humid; heat reached with its stifling arms to smother all in its path. The quelling quietness was unending, unyielding, unrelenting. It was a time of fear, a time of guilt, and a time of patience. It was a time of an uncharted universe and a time of a thousand and two tears.

      It was, in fact, a nearing deadline.

      It was the end of my twelfth summer; art school applications were creeping up quickly and quietly and I had yet to start learning the practice of painting. I abruptly entered a world of hidden, unpredictable colours, breathing pigments and dancing brushes.

      When you mix yellow with blue, it makes a green. Yes, I know that. When you mix a green and a red, it makes a muted green. When you mix black with a yellow, it is also a muddy green. Oh, I see. To make a muted rich colour, mix a colour with its complimentary: purple and yellow, orange and blue, green and red. Another way to get these colours is to layer them: first wash of yellow, second wash of purple. Wait, wait, mom, can you read that again?

      Instructional books began to grow on the couch next to my work table until there was only a silhouetted space for my mom to sit. The drawers were filled with a plethora of papers, pencils and paint, much like scattered lollipops and sparkling candy. A pile of failed practices and unsatisfactory paintings expanded exponentially. That seemed to be all I was producing during those first weeks.

      In the autumn, I remember the days spent in the drafty upstairs studio, the orange light slowly fading, turning pink, then purple, then gone. The yellowed light of the lamp would then keep me going for at least another two hours. Exercise after exercise, each one a small step closer to the famed Gustav Klimp or genius Monet. From multicoloured skies to deformed trees, I persevered; my mother – my guide and critic.

      It was a silent practice, painting. Often days, not a word would be spoken between my mom and I for two to three hours. Painting and talking do not walk well together. However, in the later weeks, the silence was strained and tense, due to arguments and tears and hurt hearts on both sides. It was a lonely business, painting.

      But there is also an unexplainable satisfaction when the final mark has been made and a part of my being has been precariously planted inside. And then you come back two days later; it's an absolutely horrible piece! you will say. Alas, it is a obstacle to overcome.

      The start of winter was like a happy ending, with floating feelings and fuzzy warmth. I laid the final stroke to my final piece – the last grape was done. I stood back. A heavy sigh lifted from within me; deep in my being, a new life budded. It is where I come back to every moment I feel the curve of the brush hair, every moment I liberate a pigment, every moment I admire critically a “finished” piece – and of course, in each of those moments I must thank my mom. And so it was that my artist was born and the world began, at the end of my twelfth summer.