Lost Art

      As depressing as it sounds, it has been 6 months since I last picked up a paint brush. After the fire, I lost everything. My studio, my child and my everything. My husband and I barely made it, escaping with severe burns to different parts of our bodies. It was chocked up to an electrical fire and the fire for some stupid reason, started in my son’s room. He was only 6 and we had to bury him with whatever we had left. The loss was too much to bear and my husband practically abandoned me, with him diving into alcohol bottles every night. My hands took the worst of the burns, while he had more across his leg and arm. What kind of irony is this? An artist, who used to paint her family, has her hands burned, her son killed, and her marriage destroyed. Out of habit, I still visit the craft store, but every time I look at the canvases, the paints, the brushes, I have to leave them behind. I finally got the courage to speak to a therapist and she told me that hobbies would help me heal, take my mind from things, but what do you do when your one hobby, your one talent, has been ripped away by painful memories?

           I couldn’t stand my husband’s behavior any longer and filed for divorce. I moved into my own small apartment with the help of some friends and now live with my cousin as a roommate. She leaves me to grieve, for which I asked of her, not really wanting to see or talk to anyone. When I checked the calendar today, the image on it made me angry. You know those calendars; they always have the decorative picture for each month. Turning the page today, the picture was of a park with some trees. My brain couldn’t help but reflect on trips to the park with my son, which at this point, triggered anger instead of sadness. I did not understand why my son, a 6-year-old, had to be taken from this world before he got a real chance at life. The problem was too that this picture, filled me with an urge to paint. I loved and hated it, because I used to let my environment fuel my muse for painting. Anything in nature, people, animals, but mostly it was my son that gave me the drive. Now my muse was left with a void, empty and cold. My therapist told me once again, that if I didn’t want to pick up another hobby of some kind and that my passion was set on painting, that I should just pick up a paint brush and let it flow freely. I thought about this a lot. Even dreamed about it. I thought to myself that maybe if I blind fold myself, deafen my ears with music, that I could paint freely and creatively, letting my hands do what I had trained them to for so long. Tragically, my hands were burned, but they thankfully did heal and I do have full function of them, they are just scarred and ugly now. I hate looking at them and was thankful that it was the time of year when people wore gloves. I took off said gloves I was wearing and looked at these hands of mine. Could I do what I did before?

           I didn’t have to go shopping for art supplies, because my friends and family are supportive of my hobby and after the fire, they stocked me with new supplies. I hadn’t touched them, left everything wrapped up in their packages, left in a box. The new easel was leaning against the corner of the room and the box of supplies sat in the closet. I looked back at the calendar picture and made a break for it. I opened the box from the closet, dumping out the supplies on my bed. I had empty palettes, paint tubes of many colors, paint brushes of all sizes and stared at them all sprawled out on my bed. I went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and some paper towels, in case I needed them for the picture. I set up the easel with a blank canvas and poured decent amounts of different colored paints on a palette. I arranged the brushes on a side table to the right of my easel and finally, put on a blind fold. I had one of those sleeper masks for your eyes and used it, holding the palette in the other hand.

I reached out and touched the canvas with the tips of my fingers, the sadness and rage of my situation burning into the skin. The canvas had that familiar feeling, rough and ready to absorb what it touched. I guess some part of me was hoping that along with paint, the canvas would absorb my negative emotions, or any emotions for that matter and leave me with a blank slate. I picked up one of the brushes, unaware of it’s size and tapped it to the palette. I could feel where I was touching paint and could even remember the red that I put in that place. I tapped a few times to load the brush and began pressing the bristles into the canvas. I swiped in different directions, trying to not visualize what I was creating and in a few strokes, I could feel that the canvas was covered pretty well and I went ahead with tapping into other colors and making more swipes on the canvas. I tried to just forget about the colors, forget about patterns and just let myself feel the vibrations of the brush on the canvas, feel how my emotions released with every press. I stopped for a second, knowing that I had dirtied 3 brushes and probably even the floor or my clothing and for the first time in months, I laughed. I thought about how much of a mess I must have made, and this familiar feeling of joy was a welcome lantern in a snowstorm.

I didn’t have the nerve to remove the blindfold yet, so I just dropped the brush I was holding to the floor and picked up another one. I tapped on the palette and canvas for probably a total of 40 minutes before I felt like I was done. I stood there now, with the palette clung to my thumb still, drooping at my side. The brush I was holding in my other hand, I noticed did in fact have paint on the handle, which made me laugh again. Some part of me couldn’t wait to see what mess I made and if it would actually be a salvageable piece of art. I felt around for the table to the right, placing the brush and palette down and finally removed the blindfold. I was shocked with the image I had done and was surprised and impressed by my natural ability to fall back into habits. Although very abstract and saturated with many blends and colors, the middle of the picture somehow had a distinct likeness of my son. Some part of me felt sad, but this was swelled over with the joy of my finished work. Looking to the floor however, I laughed out loud, seeing the paint splattered in different places, on my shoes, pants, shirt, hands and even on the easel. When I looked at my hands this time, I wasn’t angry about the scars, because as long as they were covered with paint, I wouldn’t see them anyways.