Splatter

We’re having a staring contest, me and this big blank canvas. And I’m sorry to say the canvas is winning. Its whiteness is mocking me, mocking my inability to do anything besides sit here and lose a staring contest. With an inanimate object. 

I twirl the brush between my fingers. I run the back of my hand along the paint jar. I question the need to add just a speck more yellow cadmium, light. 

My palette is set. My brushes are in neat rows, organized by size. The palette knife is closest to me, because I never know when I’ll need it. 

I have pre-mixed almost a dozen colors. Shades ranging from deep, forbidding red to a light, airy blue. I worked for hours to get them the perfect shade, the perfect consistency. My movements were careful and thought out; there was never a stray movement or exuberant gesture.

This is how I paint. This is how I create. My canvases are covered by neat lines and rows, everything in its place. 

I have mastered the art of free handing a line. Not a shake or squiggle to be seen. That was the plan for this project as well. Just another in a long series of geometric designs, all intended for a show, at some point down the road.

For now, they just sit, leaning against the studio wall, inactive. They are waiting for me to take the first steps.

Transfixed by the blank stretch of canvas before me, I pick up my brush. Without thinking, without pausing to consider, I dip the wide, inch and a half brush into the open jar of violently bright green, and throw it against the canvas.

The whole brush leaves my hand, propelled by an intensity I didn’t know I possessed. The tip, full of paint, hits first, and splatters green all over me. The brush then goes flying off in a diagonal direction, heading straight for my pristine rug. 

Somehow, I don’t care.

I don’t care that the rug is ruined, that my face and hair are splattered, and that my canvas is no longer pristine. 

I just don’t care.

The splotch has broken the staring contest, putting me firmly in control. 

Inspired, I pick up my largest palette knife, scoop up the beautiful sky blue, and smack it onto the surface. Next to the loud green, it makes quite the contrast. More subtle and relaxed, it calms the splotch down. 

Intrigued, I drag the knife from the middle of the blue into the green, creating a wonderful mix of color. I stop myself before I get carried away, and lose the sharp contrast between the two colors. As my teacher always used to say, “Half of being an artist is knowing when to stop”. 

I pause, considering the mess I’ve made. With a grin on my face large enough to peel the splattered paint away from my cheeks, I reach for a clean brush. 

Next up: orange.

***

This is what came out when I was trying to write creative non-fiction .

on surprises

Sometimes, when I write, I know exactly where I'm heading.

Sometimes I don't.

But it's only occasionally that the destination surprises me.

When the words are already floating in my head, half composed, all I have to do is put fingers to keys and out flows a post.

A whole post. Or close.

When I'm writing because I need to write, or because I'm working through something, the words flow. In a different way, because I'm not thinking and considering, I'm just getting it out.

I find that many times the place I reach is what I already had in mind. Writing just confirms it. Gives me confidence in my decision.

In my last post, I started out with the idea of writing about silence. As the scene grew, and I saw this couple sitting on two sides of a room, I heard the woman telling her partner it wasn't okay. She would come to the conclusion that she was strong; strong enough to say no and not carry his problems as well as hers.

But, as I kept going and stopped thinking, the ending changed.

I wasn't sure how it was going to end until I got there. But that destination, a complete surprise, felt right.

It fit.

She thought it through logically, and realized she was strong. She wanted to change and be different. But something made her stay.

Strength

Time stretches.I stare anywhere but at his face,
his wide, pleading eyes.
I know that if I see his face,
the contours I know so well,
that I will waver.
He will see me waver.
Eyes dramatically filling with tears,
he will ask for forgiveness.
His tone so self-deprecating,
I will forgive him.
But only,
I tell myself,
because it's all his fault.
And this way, I relieve him of the guilt.
We both know I'm the strong one.
Strong I may be, but he knows how to tear through.
Right through to my soft, wounded spots.
It's our routine.
Our pattern.
Our relationship.
This time, I tell myself, will be different.
Is different.
Confident in my decision,
a decision that puts me first,
I bring my eyes to meet his.
As his eyes well up,
I whisper,
"It's okay."

Two Worlds

On the outside, she is perfect.

Her scrubs fit perfectly, her hair is messy in a way that says she is confident and doesn't care what the world thinks. Her nose is petite, her skin clear.

Her shoes add just enough height to make people notice her, but not enough to be imposing.

She is young; younger than most with her job.

After setting down her purse and coat, she sits facing me.

I watch her eyes as she listens to the report. They are large and brown, rimmed by dark eyelashes.

The intensity with which she listens is unusual. Her job clearly means a lot to her. Her eyes never waver from the other women's as she takes notes.

After shift change, this woman settles into her chair. The hinges squeak as she adjusts the settings to her liking.

Her gaze settles on me, and we exchange the customary "Good mornings".

She makes small talk with the other nurses as they trickle in. They comment on the weather, whining kids, the new year, lack of sleep, and other standards.

Her intense gaze is now fixed on the computer screen. I continue answering calls.

Only after the third "Meghan?", does she turn to face me. Her eyes are no longer intense, but fixed on a point no one else can see.

I tell her about the family member on hold, before slowly returning to the blinking phone.

Her gaze and changed demeanor startle me. 

She continues to answer questions and type and be present when needed.

In the small spaces in between, however, her eyes un-focus. She allows her lids to close partway, for wrinkles to from at the corners, and for her chin to drop.

Her outward appearance is carefully orchestrated to disguise whatever lies beneath the surface.

I wonder at her secrets. Her life. The one she shows to the world, and the one that takes place behind closed doors.

The pager's strident buzz catches both of us off-guard and we reach for it, she with her work face back in place, and me, not making the transition quite as quickly.