Hi! Here’s my entry for PTPWC. The prompt is Masterpiece.
The hot sun beats down on my neck. Just a few more minutes I tell myself. I can hear my mothers voice yelling for me in the distance, but I can’t leave. Not yet. I bring my paint brush up to the blank canvas. Should it be indigo, green, periwinkle, red? I bring the brush away. There’s nothing more intimidating then a blank page. I’m an artist, but it wouldn’t seem like it to a stranger. I wear my hair in a tight low bun, and a uniform every week day. Early morning is the only time I can get away from the hustle and bustle of the world.
But how can I be an artist when I can’t even find inspiration in a breathtaking sunrise? I’m scared of an empty image, and can’t even decide what colour to use. It doesn’t make any sense. Yet I still insist on getting up every morning to the same thing, hoping that one day I might happen to be inspired by the vibrant colours. But no. I’m stuck staring at a blank page. An empty, hopeless nothingness.
The first time I started drawing was when I was 6 years old. I went to a public school then, not forced to wear an uncomfortable uniform and dull colours. Now I go to a snooty private school that I despise with a great passion. Our art teacher gave us a piece of page and told us to draw. Anything. And me being my carefree little kid. I drew. When the teacher saw what I had created with a pencil and a few finger paints she exclaimed with much satisfaction that I was to be an art prodigy! As soon as my mother saw the painting she also was abuzz with excitement.
So I was sent off immediately to a expensive public school. My mother sent in a portfolio of the things I’d created and the school loved it. They said they were masterpieces, they said I could accomplish great things at their school. But I never have. I love to draw and create, but it doesn’t happen in school. I’m told if I ever want to have a chance as an artist I need to step up my game. But I can’t.
It’s impossible with the pressure, and even when I get away from it all I can’t seem to make anything that even comes close to a masterpiece. I pick up my paint brush and chuck it at the canvas. It lands on it with a lovely sounding thwack. I smile. I grab another paint brush and dunk it in the orange and rub it around in a crazy circle mixing the two colours. Dipping and dunking, splating, and plunking all over the empty space. But it’s not empty anymore. It’s filled with fabulous colours. And maybe it’s not a masterpiece. But I kind of like it.