Seeking Inspiration

Amoga sat in her paint splattered shirt, brush in hand, and a blank canvas before her. She fiddled with the slender wooden brush, bouncing it against her thigh as she chewed her bottom lip. At her side was a table covered with an assortment of colours. She had selected her colour scheme and mixed the appropriate shades together in order to achieve her desired pastel pallet. However, atop her painting stool, she found herself unable to bring the bush to the canvas.

She knew what she was creating: a skull in a bed of flowers. She had sketched out the image in pencil and now all that was left was to paint it. But still, the mere sight of it nerved her; fear of ruining something she was so proud of consumed her. What if she only made it worse by adding paint? Should she just leave it unfinished with all the others?

Her eyes strayed to the corner of her studio, finding the other canvased piled against the wall: some showed the images, while others were turned away and faced the wall only. Those were the ones she had ruined with colour. She put down the paintbrush at her side and sighed heavily. She ran her hands over her thighs, feeling the rough fabric of her jeans rub against her palms.

Beside the canvas Anika stirred in her cot. The sweet, dream-like sounds of the child drew her mother’s eyes to her and placed a smile across Amoga’s lips. Anika was a still a few months old and slept for most of the days; a peaceful baby. During her pregnancy, Amoga had felt her most creative: working on a piece every day and never once feeling as if she had failed as an artist. Never once had she doubted her abilities. Often, she would sit on her stool, sipping green tea, and smile at her work. She swore the creative spell came directly from Anika, but her husband – Devesh – only laughed and told her she was crazy before kissing her head.

Devesh was five years older than Amoga and was looking for a wife for some time. He was a family friend who Amoga had known most of her life, but not until she was in her mid-twenties did she begin to think of Devesh as husband material. He had had may girlfriends in his life, and none of them it seemed were good enough to be his wife. When he had eventually run of out hope, Amoga had thrown her hat in the ring. Now, six years later, they were married and parents.

Amoga picked up the brush again and bit down gently on the tip of the handle; the woody taste tickled her tongue. “Do I really want is to be all in pastels?” she asked herself, looking down at her chosen pallet, then shook her head. “No, no you’re making excuses for yourself.”

Anika began to wriggle and the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric drew Amoga’s attention: her daughter was stretching her legs, like she was kicking. A smile was on the babies face and her eyes were still closed: dreaming of something pleasant, Amoga thought. The days following Anika’s birth Amoga had felt at her lowest creative-wise. No images of painting crossed through her mind nor did her fingers itch to hold a brush in them. All that creativeness Anika had given to her mother while in the womb seemed to have left with her. Placing Anika in the room with her, Amoga hoped that it would provide some divine inspiration.

But the creative flow felt blocked by a dam. Tall and concrete, it held all the creativity of her mind in the very depths of her being; locked away and leaving her sanity to thirst for fresh water.

And then the doorbell rang downstairs. Amoga looked towards the door to the landing, then to her daughter: still sleeping, unbothered. Sighing once more, Amoga returned the brush to the table and rose to her feet. Her painting shirt was baggy and hung lightly around her body. Barefoot, she walked down to the front door, making out a figure of a man on the other side. Delivery is here. She assured herself, before opening the door and greeting a man dressed in a black uniform. He mutely presented Amoga with a small device with a screen. Using her index finger, she drew her signature but only left behind faint marks of an A. The delivery man looked at the signature, shrugged, and handed over the parcel.

“It’ll do,” He said and turned to leave. Amoga watched him walk away, holding the carboard package in one hand and rested the other on the door. Lingering on the spot, Amoga watched as the delivery man got into his van and drove off. Then she closed the door and headed towards the kitchen. She scratched her nails over the carboard before tearing it open.

A book for Devesh; the latest in a crime fiction series he had recently become invested in. Amoga held it in both hands, staring at the cover where a woman’s silhouette was running through a forest. She skimmed read the blurb then placed the book down on the table; she was still uninspired but walked back towards her painting stool regardless. Begrudgingly she walked upstairs, pulling herself up with the railing.

Anika was still sleeping, her tiny fingers curled into delicate fists. Standing over her sleeping daughter, Amoga gently brushed her fingers against Anika’s cheek; smooth baby skin that still smelt newborn.

Amoga sat back down on the stool and picked up her paint brush and dipped it into a blob of pastel green, ready to begin painting the stems and leaves of flowers. A smile on her lips, she reached forwards and pressed the wet tip to the canvas, creating the first permanent mark on the image. She moved the brush down the canvas, leaving behind a green line. Amoga’s lips parted as she smiled wider, finally feeling the creativity flowing again.

And then her phone began to buzz in her pocket. It vibrated against her thigh. She had turned it onto silent after the first time her phone had woken Anika up from her nap – that had been a draining hour to send her back off to sleep.

Amoga sat still and focused on the buzzing, hoping that if she ignored it it would stop. But when it continued to buzz and make her skin tingle, she dropped the brush down on the table and pulled out her phone. She held it up before herself, spied the caller ID, and rolled her eyes.

Aunty Yukta. This would be a long call.

“Hello?” Amoga answered.

Aunty Yukta breathed heavily on the phone; like Darth Vader, she had a distinct noise that Devesh often made jokes about. “Amoga, it’s me, Aunty Yukta,” she said, typically on brand for Yukta. Amoga rose to her feet and began to pace around the room.

“Yes, Aunty, I know. What’s up?”

“Your mother’s birthday is coming isn’t it?”

Amoga nodded. “Yes, Aunty, it’s next week. Why?”

“What have you got her?”

Amoga paused and closed her eyes. Pursing her lips, she tried not to lose her tempter; Yukta had a bad habit of turning to Amoga for help with presents for her own sister. And usually, she would ask to join in on the present Amoga and Devesh had bought.

“Devesh and I have bought her a spa week weekend,” Amoga explained, crossing her arms and looked down at Anika for support.

“Oh, that sounds fancy,” Yukta said; in the background was the sound of a busy road and Amoga wondered where Yukta was. “That sounds very fancy definitely.”

There was a pause in the conversation and Amoga stood over Anika, feeling her fingers twitch to hold the paint brush once more. “What have you gotten her, Aunty?” Amoga asked, entertaining the repetitive conversation.

“Oh, you know, I haven’t quite got her anything yet!” Yukta said. She went quiet but breathed heavily – perhaps she was running across the road to avoid getting hit by a car; another of her favourite tricks. “That was actually why I was calling pet, to see if you had any ideas. But I’m not sure I’ll be able to top a spa weekend,” she laughed, and then went silent, awaiting an answer.

Amoga let the silence hang on for longer than she should have, partly testing to see if Yukta would continue talking if she sensed hostility from her niece. But when the pause became too awkward and uncomfortable for Amoga to withstand, she replied. “I know she said she wanted a new candelabra for the dining table,” Amoga said with a sigh.

“Oh, that’s a lovely idea. Do you know where I might get one?” Yukta asked eagerly. She was easy to please, usually taking the first idea presented to her as to avoid the difficulty of choice.

“You could look online…” Amoga began then trailed off, her voice fading away. She held the phone away from her ear as to brace for Yukta’s reply.

“You know I don’t know how to do anything online!” she snapped sharply. Amoga wondered if people in public looked over in response to Yukta’s sudden outburst.

“Sorry Aunty,” Amoga offered, “or maybe you could look in a furniture store?”

“Do you think John Lewis would have one?” Yukta asked, her voice calming again.

“Perhaps,” Amoga said, uncomfortable and desperate to get off the phone.

“Would you mind having a look for me some time, dear, maybe tomorrow?” Yukta said cheekily, once again knowing what she was doing.

“I actually have plans tomorrow Aunty…”

“You’re on maternity leave, what could you possibly have planned?”

Amoga pursed her lips and looked to Anika. Her patience was falling drastically. “Several things, Aunty, so I won’t have time to go looking for you. Sorry. In fact, I’m busy right now and need to get on with things. Speak to you soon,” Amoga finished and hung up. She huffed with annoyance and placed her phone across the room. Yukta wouldn’t call back, but there was a chance someone else would.

Standing in the centre of the room, Amoga placed her hands on her hips and tried to call back the creative flow she had previously experienced. But it was gone now; the leak in the dam was fixed up and now nothing was flowing; that green smudge on the canvas was ugly and unpolished. It ruined the entire piece and only frustration filled Amoga now.

She closed her eyes and huffed loudly, cursing Aunty Yukta for a second, then took back the comment. Anika was awake, her eyes scanning over the ceiling and noises of wonder emitting from her lips. The noises beckoned her mother, and Amoga loomed over Anika. The pair smiled at one another.

“What are you doing?” Amoga said, her voice rising in pitch and enthusiasm returning. “What are you doing, gorgeous girl?” she tickled Anika’s stomach with her nails, causing the baby to let out a high giggle. The sound relaxed Amoga as she felt her shoulders untense and the heaviness of her head subside.

Returning to her stool, Amoga picked up the brush, the paint on the nip now dried. She refreshed the tip and pressed it to the canvas, determined to change the ugliness of the green smug to a beautiful leaf. She painted along the edges of the leaf, being sure not to go over the lines. Her steady hand guiding the brush along the surface of the white canvas. She stuck out her tongue in concentration; this would be the piece of work that got her back on track, back on the path of making art during her free time, and motherhood would be her inspiration.

And then Anika began to cry. Wailing in her basket, the baby kicked her legs and cried out for her mother. Her face was scrunched up and her arms waved around for attention. Amoga felt a sense of worry overwhelm her; the brush fell from her fingertips and bounced off the table to the floor. She jumped to her feet and scooped up her daughter in her arms. Instantly, the crying began to tame to a simple murmur as Amoga bounced Anika in her arms.

“There, there, mummy’s got you.”

Amoga began to pace around the room again, her eyes looking between the canvas and Anika’s head. Anika, the weight in her arms, was a comfort. Holding her felt like pregnancy again; like Anika was back in her womb and her stomach was swollen once more. Holding her bought back the creativity Amoga felt she had lost, and while looking at the canvas, she could now see past the blankness, the intimidation of making art, and the fear of failure. Now, while holding her daughter in her arms, she could see the painting full of colour.