An artist, driven by innovation, gifted, rare like a dimpled chick, they said. Bullshit. I don’t know
what I was thinking when I sat on my bed with my unfinished paintings. A blank
look on my face as I gawked at my easel. My unfinished glass paintings, seemed to mock at me for leaving them alone for years. I was a coward I guess. Full of dust, my unfinished paintings covered in white sheets had a corpse-like
appearance. A strange smell. Musty would be a wrong word to explain it. I was
so busy to be successful, I gave up on my passion, my love, my life. I murdered
my skills. That pain. The trapped souls in these paintings, rotten for years,
traumatized, dying to be free, waiting for the brush strokes and care. Eyes began
to moisten. I began to remove the sheets from them. The last thing I wanted to do was a broken glass painting. I still remember the number of times I had hurt
myself working with these. Bleeding, I didn’t stop. It was addictive. Pain
could never keep me away from working with these. But growing up surely
did. It took me so far from my passion and my creative side that I still can’t
find my way back to where I started. My voice chokes, my hands are not tender
anymore, and my permanent dark circles have made themselves quite comfortable
around the contours of my eye. More than 5 years....and I saw myself packaging myself into a desired product as per my parents' wish, or something much bigger.
They said an artist died before taking birth. Yes, no or maybe. Sitting in this
room after so long made me curse myself for being lured to ambition. Portraits hung
across the wall and all had my name written on it. It reminds me of how lame it
was for me to put my signature on each of my creations. I never believed in it.
Now I know its value. As time flies, lame things rise up to your priority list. I couldn't stop but guffaw when my eyes met with my old love. I found my guitar as I had left it, at the
extreme end of the room, dusty and still wearing that Adidas cap and ‘IN YOUR FACE’ t-shirt. The tee had a
cartoon character with its pants down, showing its buttocks to the audience. A brave
act from its part. I used to wear that tee when I was small. I wish I could go
back and freeze those moments and never let go. I wish to be a hero of my own. I wish
to finish those unfinished works. My paintings. My name on each painting is
resplendent with dust now, not literally but a permanent dust on my identity. I
know it will take time but I can start over again but I don’t know whether it
is going to be the same again. I always take a short tour to my former world and I try
to find my former self there. I scream out loud but I can’t find myself there. I
hope I will someday. As I turned off the
lights and was about to leave the room, something struck me – a doll I made
from a piece of wood. That was my first work of art. A girl who was never scared of working with a knife when she was a kid is now scared to hold a paint brush. How ironic! Giving up on dreams is
like having sex with your pillow the entire life. Never lock your skills in a showcase for people will admire for once and then forget with time. I would suggest let them be wild and free.
“You can’t blend in when you’re born
to stand out.”
- Ryan Buchanan
