The Paintings

Everything must be perfect! A single hair strand mustn’t stick out, Your hair has to be as straight as possible.I don’t care, you can’t look idiotic! Perfection is the key to success and happiness in life. Without it, you can’t do anything except sit on the sidewalk and beg for the money of those who are perfect.You must keep straight lines everywhere. Use the maroon not the red stupid! You are nothing without perfection, you are not smart, kind, creative, honest, successful, unless you are perfect; all of your talents would be wasted and nothing but a boring, sad, lonely person would be left.

“Kamilah? Kamilah, are you alright?” A boisterous voice asked.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry, I am.” Kamilah muttered.

“Are you sure? You seem really out of it today. If you need to, you can sit down and-”

“NO! I mean, sorry, I’m good, I don’t need to sit down…Ma’am.”

“Oookay…”

The stout woman slowly switched her gaze from Kamilah back to her canvas, her beautiful canvas. Covering the rough fabric was a scene of a vibrant, bare, tortuous tree in the hilly plains of Israel. A collage of dazzling reds, blues, yellows, purples, and pinks filled the background, creating a beautiful sunset; Kamilah’s canvas was not that at all. The tree was straight, covered in dull tones of brown and black. The hilly plains were not plains at all, but rather, an abandoned farmland where there was only flatness. And the dazzling sunset on her teacher’s canvas, was a sad misinterpretation of what she was teaching.

“Add a little bit of white to the sun and then we’re done! Alright class, once you're done with that, please, clean up your station, and get packed up for the day. Have a wonderful day, and I will see you all tomorrow.” The teacher proclaimed.

The rustle of scrambling students swarmed the room as everyone steadily walked back and forth between desks and easels. Kamilah blindly packed her stuff in its correct position, and placed all of the communal paints where they belonged; she was still repeating those words in her head and couldn’t focus on anything, or anyone, else.

She walked over to the teacher, holding her painting tightly, and handed her the canvas; the teacher stared at it, puzzled.

“Kamilah…” she whispered, “could I see you after class?”

Kamilah’s eyes widened as her face turned sorrowful and worried. She had done something wrong, and she knew it. She nodded at the teacher, seeing that the lump in her throat would not allow her to talk without crying,and walked back to the corner of the classroom, to wait for everyone to leave. 

Of course! How could I be so stupid! Art was never meant for me. I’ll never be able to paint at such perfection as Mrs. Dinh, or anyone else at that matter; I should just give up. Hopefully, nobody will notice that I’m gone, once I leave the class for good. Even better, I really, really don’t want anybody to look at me in the corner at all! Then, nobody would know I have to talk to the teacher after class.

The last girl rushed out of the classroom as the common RRIINNNGGG…RRIINNNGGG that the final bell always made. Nobody was left; nobody except for Kamilah, arms and legs crossed , and Mrs. Dinh, sitting leisurely on a stool.

“Kamilah, come sit down at my desk. You’re not in trouble, I would just like to talk to you about a few things.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have even signed up for art class; I’m terrible at painting, drawing…everything under the umbrella. Please, I’d just like to change classes and-”

“Whoa, whoa, Kaimilah, please, don’t give up on art in a second. I just wanted to talk to you about your painting and give you a few pointers.” Mrs.Dinh reassured as she reached out to the pile of canvases and pulled out the top one, the one with the most dull colors, the most dull tree, the most dull plains; she pulled out Kamilah’s painting.

“Alright, so, I just want you to look at the painting. Do you see anything that you don’t like? Do you not like this painting? Are you not proud of it?”

“I don’t like it; it’s dull and sad. I don’t think I put in enough effort to make it look good.” Kamilah mumbled.

“While you did say it’s dull and sad, the sad part, just means that’s what emotions you are conveying through this painting. Were you sad when you made this painting?”

“Yes.”

“You said it’s dull, why exactly?”

“I dunno.”

“Would you like it if I could give my interpretation of why?”

“Sure Ma’am.”

“Okay, as I look at this, I only see straight lines. Is that the same case for you?”

“Yes…”

“There we have it, I think your problem is that your painting isn’t dynamic, it’s only full of straight, flat lines which makes it seem unnatural when it’s supposed to be a scene of nature. And then also, you have dull colors, nothing as colorful as most scenes would have. Do you understand this?”

“Yes.”

“So, to fix this, I want you to come to the classroom over the weekend, and try to paint something while I give you notes. Is that okay with you?”

“Hmm…”

“Perfect, I will see you tomorrow then.”

Kamilah slowly stood up from her seat at the desk, and strode out of the classroom, out of the school, to her car; every step was paced perfectly. She straightened her rear-view-mirror and saw her reflection.

Brown hair, all in the color of brown, shoulder length hair, not a single end longer than the others, and perfectly straight hair. Not a strand was sticking out or even lifted slightly. It looked as if she just placed a brown piece of paper over where her hair was supposed to be; some people said it looked weird, but she didn’t care, it was perfect, and that’s all that matters.

Kamilah started up the engine; heath, Du-doe, hnnnngggg. She recoiled at the sound, she heard it everyday, but it sounded unpleasant, like nails on a chalkboard. Kamilah regained her focus, and drove away from the school.

The rest of the week was ordinary, even a blur at times, but nonetheless, it was regular. Kamilah would wake up at 7:00 am, straighten her hair, put on some clothing, and drive to school. It was the same there as well. Kamilah was ostracized by her classmates, her teachers, and even the classroom animal in science class. She didn’t mind though, the only thing she thought about was perfect grades, perfect art, perfect life; everything had to be perfect for her. 

The weekend strolled to Kamilah, who didn’t greet it very fondly, and made her life a misery. 

Everything is out of order. Nothing is right on weekends, Why can’t my life just continue and there be no weekends? Why do I need to stop my schedule just for two days of “relaxation”? Kamilah thought constantly while getting up at 7:00 am on the Saturday after her conversation with Mrs.Dinh.

Everything is out of order. Nothing is right on weekends, Why can’t my life just continue and there be no weekends? Why do I need to stop my schedule just for two days of “relaxation”? Kamilah thought while walking through the barren hallways to the classroom.Her thoughts always came back to her relentlessly; no matter what situation she was in or what time it was in the day, her thoughts would follow and would resurface over and over for days on end.

The door opened with a whistling squeak that made Mrs.Dinh look towards the noise. She was holding paint bottles and brushes, but set them aside to greet Kamilah.

“Ah, Kamilah, so wonderful to know you came!” Mrs.Dinh exclaimed, “Please, please, come and sit down at this easel. I will be right next to you so I can help with anything you need it with.”

“Yes Ma’am.”Kamilah mumbled stiffly.

“So, today we’re painting an island in the middle of a lake. Does that sound alright with you?”

“M hmm…”

“Perfect.”

Mrs.Dinh told Kamilah, as she did every paint session, what to do, what colors to use, and how to brush the paint to the right effect. Hers was vibrant, full of color, and looked like the real thing. Kamilah's was, as always, dull, unnatural, and plain.

Mrs.Dinh asked, “Kamilah, what is this?”

“My painting.” Kamilah answered.

“I understand that, but it has the same problems that we talked about that we would avoid on Tuesday.”

“Oh…”

“So then, what’s the problem, please, tell me why you always want your paintings to be, well, like that.”

“It’s not like… I want them to look like that.”

“Well then why do you paint like that?”

“I dunno…”

“Kamilah, please, I want to work with you, but I can’t help you if you don't open up and tell me why you paint like this constantly.”

“Cause… it has perfect things.”

“What?”

“It has perfect things. The lines are perfectly straight, the sky clouds are perfectly puffy, the sunset has a straight blend from yellow to blue; it’s perfect but it doesn’t look good.”

“That’s the thing, everything is perfect which makes it seem emotionless, cold, and unnatural. Asymmetry and mistakes are what make paintings look good.”

“No… it-it doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been told my whole life that perfection is key. That nothing is more important than being perfect, so my life has been dedicated to doing just that. But, if perfect isn’t what I need in life, then what my morals and ideas and life are built on is… wrong.”

“But… that is wrong Kamilah.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You have to face the facts… the way you’ve grown up… it’s wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You have to face it or you’re going to fail.”

“Fine then, if you want my painting to be imperfect, here you go!”

Kamilah grabbed her paint brush from her bottle of burgundy orange and threw her hand over the painting. The bristles of the brush grazed against the canvas, smearing paint across the surface. Kamilah opened her eyes, and tears started to well from them. She saw the orange smear on her painting; it was ruined. The perfection of the painting was gone, and nothing but a sad flaw was left. 

Mrs.Dinh broke the silence that we left them by remarking, “Kamilah… are you okay?”

“How could I be okay!?! I just ruined my painting.” Kamilah sobbed

“Hey, hey… it’s okay, we can fix this. I just need you to calm down and then we can talk about this.”

Kamilah nodded, a sign that she was trying not to cry even more. Tears still flowed from her eyes;her lip quivered as she tried to take deep breaths. Her eyes were red with sorrow as the tears dried up and her breathing calmed to that of a slow, peaceful person.

“Are you ready?” Mrs.Dinh asked Kamilah.

“I think so.” She said while dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“Alright then, come with me over to my desk. I want to show you something.”

She grabbed Kamilah’s hand gently and they slowly ambled over to her desk. They sat down on the same side, and Mrs.DInh dragged the computer over so they could look at it together. Her fingers typed away on the keys quickly as the search bar spelled out “abstract”. Multiple images show up, but they weren’t paintings of landscapes and people, but rather, colors and shapes of varying sizes. Mrs.Dinh scrolled down towards a picture of scattered blobs of paint and zoomed in on it.

“Do you see this painting here?” she exclaimed while pointing at the screen, “This painting was made by Jackson Pollock, a famous abstract artist. He constantly made paintings like this that made millions of people think and wonder in mystery about what they were made for. Obviously, it isn’t perfect; there are smears, and blobs of paint, and uncoordinated blending, but it still is an amazing painting. Correct?”

“Yeah…” Kamilah sniffed.

“It isn’t perfect, but that’s not the point of it. The point is to show emotion through lines, and colors. It’s supposed to make you think about what it means by yourself. He succeeded in making paintings like this that were accepted and actually encouraged by others. And so is the same for many other abstract artists like Helen Frankenthaler, Gerhard, Richter, Cy Twombly, and many others. So you see, it doesn’t matter if a painting is perfect or not, it only matters if it conveys something that you want to show that’s important for people to understand or that’s important to you personally. Do you understand?”

“I think so…” 

“So, I want to try an exercise with you. We’re going to try and make an abstract painting; one where I want you to not think about it, just make it. I don’t want to restrict you in any way, but I want you to try and find the perfect imperfection you need. Are you ready to do so?”

“Yeah.” Kamilah declared.

“Alright then, let’s get started.”

Mrs.Dinh quickly grabbed a tarp from a cupboard and placed it on the floor along with a fresh canvas; everything was ready, and so was Kamilah. She grabbed the same bottle of burgundy orange, holding it above the canvas.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Ready.” Mrs.Dinh answered.

With Mrs.Dinh’s signal, she dropped the bottle onto the canvas. It splashed the white, plain surface of the canvas in its deep brown paint as it bounced,and rolled off onto the tarp. Kamilah paused, not knowing what to feel.

This is so exciting? What have I done!?! It doesn’t have to be perfect. It always has to be perfect, nothing is good without perfection. I don’t care anymore, I like it! Kamilah thought to herself.

“Are you alright?” Mrs.Dinh questioned.

“Yeah… actually, I’m better than okay. Could you pass me the black and that thick paint brush on your left.” Kamilah mentioned.

Mrs.Dinh did immediately, and passed them to her. She dabbed the thick brush in black, and shook it hard. Speckles of blue appeared on everything, clothes, the tarp, books, and the canvas. The painting turned to one of only brown, to what you would so on the speckled bark of a tree. She constantly switched colors from yellow, orange, red, blue, and black, smearing paints, splashing blots here and there, shaking the brush so much it goes dry. She seldom asked Mrs.Dinh for more paints and colors, seeing that there would be a lot more to cover the canvas. She didn’t mind though, her thoughts were on Kamilah succeeding in finding a passion for art, all types of art, and that was more priceless than a few bucks spent on some more paints.

Kamilah speared the same burgundy orange on the canvas; she stepped back, looking at the painting she had made. It was covered in speckles of mainly black with white blobs dotted here and there. The burgundy orange smears glided across the once white surface, and reds, blues, yellows, and oranges, of all varying tones and shades, dribbled across the canvas. It was alive, it was natural, it was vibrant, it was imperfect.

“So… how do you feel?”Mrs.Dinh asked.

“Great, no… more than great, amazing actually. This is exhilarating! I feel so much better than I have in years!” Kamilah announced.

“Well, I think you found it.”

“Found what?”

“A passion for imperfection. You’re no longer in fear of the shackles of perfection; you are free to make mistakes, but make the best of them.”

“You’re right. I feel free.”

“Alright then, I think we’re done for the day then. Would you help me clean up?”

“Sure thing…”

“Perfect.”

The two strode past each other, carrying the perfect painting, the easels, the tarps, the paints, everything to where they should be. Kamilah cleaned the floor, and the cupboards that had been victimized by the paint splatters while Mrs.Dinh washed out the tarp outside. The room was free of paint in about fifteen minutes, and it basked in its new found cleanliness. Mrs.Dinh, and Kamilah stared at the room, and basked in their production as well.

“Well, would you like to do this next Saturday Kamilah?” Mrs.Dinh questioned.

“Yeah, same time?” Kamilah declared.

“I was thinking at the same time, but we’ll try a Cy Twombly style painting.”