“Lightning is yellow, that’s like being nervous.”
“Lightning is usually blue and white in nature. It’s only yellow in kids’ drawings.”
She hesitated, then pointed to the blue. “So, blue?”
“Why blue?”
“Because you….”
“Close your eyes,” he said. Celia complied. “How does your body feel right now?”
Feel? Lord, she was failing at everything he asked. “I’m not sure how to answer.”
“Hot? Cold? How do your hands feel?”
“My hands? They’re normal. Maybe a little cold?”
She could hear him move behind her, then felt fingers on her wrist. She opened her eyes to stare straight ahead, trying to not stiffen up.
“You feel a little hot, a little damp,” he said.
“So…red?”
He chuckled behind her. “We’ve got work to do here,” he said, removing his hand. “Okay. Let’s start at the absolute beginning. You’re going to paint yourself on the canvas, but all you can do is make colored lines.”
His hand reached toward her canvas board, the only part of him visible from behind her, describing in the air what he wanted her to do.
“The lines can go up and down, side to side, curved or angled, but no objects, no circles or squares. Pick any color, no judgment, and make a line to represent you at this moment.”
Deep breath. Red was the last color mentioned, so she went with it. A little hot, a little damp. A single straight line, up and down, in red.
“Good. That’s you, right here, right now. Clean the brush, please.” She followed the direction. “Now, let’s make your line nervous. Pick another color. Yellow is fine, whatever color you feel is best.”
She hesitated, then went for the blue. He’d said blue for lightning. She felt rather than heard him sigh faintly behind her.
“Let’s make a nervous line,” he directed. Celia hovered the brush near the canvas but went utterly blank. “Do you feel nervous in your whole body, alongside the red line? Does it cut across your line? Does it zig zag? Is it a lot of little lines?”
The last one sounded the closest to what she imagined nervous might look like. She painted shorter blue lines, cutting across the red line, slanted upwards.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, voice warmer. “See how nervous might look? Cutting into you? It breaks up your shape, like feeling nervous can break up your body.”
Relief. He approved.
What next? She waited, but he left her hanging, saying nothing. The tip of her brush trembled, and she focused on stilling it as the silence grew uncomfortable. What was he expecting from her?
“What should I do?” she finally asked.
His voice behind her was calm, giving no clues. “What feels right?”
Hell.
She cleaned the brush, stalling. What felt right? What did that even mean? With no cues about what else to do to her line, she slowly mixed an orange and drew another straight line to the left of the red one.
“And what is that?” he asked.
“You,” she explained. “You’re making me nervous standing back there, so I put you in it.”
“Why am I orange?”