Tonight is the first night in a long time that I’ve painted in my room. For the past weeks or so, I’ve been painting with a good friend of mine at her studio about three nights a week. But tonight, I was overcome by the need to create something. And I’ve sat in front of this canvas for hours, mixing paint, breathing in the smell of linseed oil, scrutinizing every detail, with only the sound of Mumford & Sons and a cup of coffee to keep me company. I’m sore from the night before, both physically and emotionally, but I don’t care. Then, “White Blank Page” comes on, and my eyes moisten. A few moments later, they release a few drops of tears only to hit my palette. Painting is the only thing that comes naturally to me. But at the same time, I’m always so emotionally drained whenever I paint. Every painting I’ve ever done is a reflection of myself at that point in time. The process is always difficult because I’m allowing myself to feel vulnerable, for once. But the feeling I have when I finish a piece is unlike any other kind of freedom. This painting, though, is the hardest one for me yet. It’s different than my other girls. It’s a self-portrait in more ways than my previous paintings. This time, I’m not painting my narratives hidden beneath the bodies and faces of fictional appearances I’ve created in my head. This painting is of me. And it’s going to somewhat resemble me. I’m trying to be brave for once, even though I’m shy and afraid. I’m trying to say to myself that this is me, and this is what I’m going through, and that is what I look like. And even though I don’t like it, its okay. I’m putting myself all out there for anyone to see and judge or do whatever they want. I’m scared, but I’ll keep going just because I already started.Oh, and I buzzed the side of my head.
mkp.
