Alive with Color

The small coastal town is easy to navigate, especially since I spent most of my childhood here. The town buzzes with early morning activity. Fishermen are preparing their vessels, while loaves of bread are being transported back and forth between the bakery and the local fish and chip shop. If today goes well, I might be spending the next four years here, under the watchful eye of Master (debatable) Lankow.

Years ago, while visiting Aunt Helen, I discovered an old painting in her garage. Her house was an endless source of discovery, from her clothes and jewels to the delicious meals she cooked. Every day was a new adventure. Back then, I loved it; now, the idea of living here makes me nauseous.

However, the painting captured my heart, and once Aunt Helen noticed my interest, she took it out and hung it in the living room. It depicted a landscape of an old barn—nothing extraordinary about it. Yet, I couldn't take my eyes off it. As I grew older, my fascination only deepened—or as my mother would say, my imagination took hold. The painting had a peculiar mix of colors that shouldn't work together but somehow did. It also changed subtly in ways that only I seemed to notice.

My obsession, or perhaps my mother, brought me back to this coastal town, completely unaware that the artist who sparked my love for art lived right here, so close. By some miracle, or maybe thanks to my dearly departed Aunt Helen’s doing, I've received an invitation to attend a residency here.

The only snag is that two others are competing for the position, and there is only one spot available. Truth be told, I’m not even sure I want to be here anymore.

The art studio is nestled between a bakery and a hardware store, both alive with energy. Moms with strollers and hipsters are milling about, sipping their beverages and chatting with one another. The studio, however, is closed.

A glance at my phone tells me I’m early. I pace, rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans, second-guessing my decision for the hundredth time. I long to talk to Aunt Helen; she understood and supported me. I can’t fathom why she insisted I come here.

Tears threaten to spill, and I give myself a mental shake. She wouldn’t want me to show up a teary mess, especially in this outfit that she would have surely disapproved of. If only I could still raid her closet. Mom got rid of everything after she died. My fists grip my handbag in frustration—she didn’t get it, didn’t care. She never did.

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My throat constricts as Master Lankow paces before me. Can he see me for the fraud that I am? Why is he tilting his head like that? He’s tall and oddly shaped, with long legs and a round torso. He reminds me of a lollipop—curly hair, chubby cheeks, and a handlebar mustache. Seriously, who put this guy together?

Some claim that there is magic in this very studio. Every piece of art supposedly contains that spark of magic, and some have found that their artwork often shifts—bits and pieces coming and going, sculptures changing poses.

Madness. And yet, here I am, ready to learn from that madness.

The lollipop figure wears bright yellow coveralls. I tilt my head to see what is written on his leg; it appears to be a lunch order.

As if sensing me, the lollipop man clears his throat and stares at me. His deep green eyes bore into mine. Did he notice that I shaved my hair? An urge to scratch my patchy scalp overwhelms me, but my hand stops midway as my opponents stare at me oddly.

Heidi, of average height and medium build, shakes her head at me. She’s dressed in her Sunday best: a plaid skirt, a white shirt, and a pretty pink pullover with heels. Mom was right; a little effort this morning might have helped.

Ripped jeans, a faded black hoodie, and dirty sneakers—that’s me. I thought it reflected my artistic flair of not giving a fuck. But sometimes, it feels necessary to give one. However, that won't be today for me.

“Why did you accept my invitation?” Master Lankow lowers himself onto a stool next to my easel. “You worked in a bank, yes? Why trade stability for a life of uncertainty?” He spreads his hands, gesturing to the studio around us.

My gaze wanders around the studio. Easels and stools surround me, and color explosions fill the space—turquoise, midnight green, and cadmium yellow splashed on a nearby canvas. The smell of turpentine fills my nose as I take a steadying breath.

“There’s no need to answer right now,” he says softly, as if speaking only to me.

He smiles, a goofy grin that I can’t quite understand. He snaps his fingers to get our attention.

“Now let’s begin!” His voice travels through the studio.

I grab a paintbrush, feeling a slight tremble in my hands. The question rattles me, but the answer eludes me.

“You don’t need to gather materials,” he gestures to us, “You all know that my artwork has a special quality to it. That quality comes from both the artist and the studio.”

The artists and I exchange confused glances.

He chuckles as if he knows something we don’t. “Today, the studio will test you. It will choose you, as it did me.”

We step up to the canvas, with no paint or paintbrush in hand. I feel a bit foolish. Each of us has a canvas, beautiful in its stark whiteness, but also utterly intimidating. Part of me knew that painting would be part of today, but now that I'm here, nothing comes to me. 

There's no spark of creativity. Did I lose it when I had my own meltdown? 

Aunt Helen, if you can hear me, please send help. 

I’m not alone in my predicament; Heidi and the guy (I can’t remember his name) are staring at each other, both shrugging. I turn back to my canvas and whisper, “Why do I paint?” 

A prickling sensation starts at my fingertips and travels up my arm. I shake my hands to rid myself of it, but then I see it. Small dots form in the corners of the studio. Slowly, they creep toward me, and I instinctively move back, knocking over the stool behind me. 

I look toward the others, but they don’t see it. Colors—bright and dark—cover the windows, blocking us in. I can’t breathe. My hands claw at my neck. If this studio chooses one of us, what will happen to the other two? Death. That’s what this feels like. 

The world goes black, void of color. No life, no spark. Am I dead? If so, I don't want it. 

Let me in!

A voice whispers to me, soft as a lover's caress, yet completely foreign. 

Let me in!

You know that feeling when you're small and playing in the pool, seeing who can hold their breath the longest? You finally come up and take your first gulp of air. Coming from the darkness feels like that. Colors explode around me. Below my feet is the greenest grass I’ve ever seen, with flowers in shades I’ve never encountered. The urge to sit and paint them is overwhelming, and I’m almost about to do just that. 

This is the studio. 

My world shifts, and suddenly I’m on the ocean, sailing on a small boat—just a dinghy, really—surrounded by endless shades of blue. I let my hand sway with the water. I want more; show me more. 

And the studio obliges. Mountains rise around me in shades of gray and white. Birds swoop down to greet me. My hands reach for them, but they’re too fast. A chuckle escapes my lips. A chuckle, not a laugh. When was the last time I felt this way? 

Since Aunt Helen. 

The day she died, my world was yanked away. She took the color with her and left me behind. I want to be where the colors are. Now I see that the colors never left. With every shade of blue, hint of pink, and burst of yellow, Aunt Helen lives on—in them, in me. 

When I open my eyes, I’m greeted by a paint-splattered ceiling. I’m on my back. When did that happen? Master Lankow, the self-proclaimed expert, leans over me, his goofy smile even wider now as he helps me sit up. My hands, covered in paint, rest in my lap. 

“How did I—” I start to ask. 

“Look,” Master Lankow says, nodding toward my canvas. 

With wobbly knees, I stand, my eyes glued to the canvas. It’s no longer blank. The tears I’ve held back since her death fall freely now. Aunt Helen smiles back at me from the canvas—a warm smile that welcomes all. Flowers and birds surround her. The colors are so vibrant they almost don’t seem real. 

Birds and butterflies flutter across the canvas. A chuckle—or maybe a snort—bubbles out of me. I did that. The studio chose me. 

“Tell me, why are you here?” Master Lankow whispers next to me. 

“To live.”