Page 14 of Absorbed

“If you wipe them away, you’ll lift off all the beautiful color you laid down beneath it. Just wait, Stacey.”

“But I totally messed up.”

“No, you didn’t. There are no mistakes in art.”

Stacey rolled her eyes. “I remember. Only lessons.”

“Well, sure, that’s true. But sometimes we have to let the painting tell us what it wants to be.”

“Should I start over?” Stacey stood up and reached for a new piece of paper from the center of the table.

“No,” Ms. Moreno said, gently putting her hand on Stacey’s shoulder. “Stop trying to control every detail. Wait and see what happens.” She stared at Stacey’s paper.

Stacey plopped back down on the stool and tried to see what Ms. Moreno was looking at. Her paper was still damp, and the white splatters had already begun to bleed into the wet page. A misty aura formed along the bottom of the composition.

“Do you think you can replicate that coming from the other direction?”

Without a word, convinced the painting was a lost cause anyway, Stacey dipped her toothbrush in the water and the paint. She angled the toothbrush, and used her opposite finger to pull the bristles. Across the bottom of the page, another layer of misty white bled into the original splatters.

Stacey looked up at the ceiling tiles, and tossed the toothbrush aside. “They don’t look anything like stars!”

“Stand up and step back,” Ms. Moreno said calmly.

Stacey fought the urge to dump the mason jar of filthy water on her painting.

Ms. Moreno stood about three feet from the table. “Stacey, stand here with me, and squint your eyes.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Stacey obeyed. The legs of the stool scraped the concrete floor as she pushed away from the butcher block. She took the spot next to her teacher.

Softly, Ms. Moreno said, “When things don’t go the way we want them to, we can learn not to make the same mistake. Or, we can learn how to make something new, and be open to appreciating the unexpected.”

Stacey squinted at her painting. Suddenly, the white mist formed by the splatters made sense. Approaching the table again, Stacey grabbed a paintbrush, wet it, and dipped it in the white paint, not bothering to sit. She spread the paint across the bottom of the page, rinsing and adding water so it becamemilky. She added hints of blue, keeping her eyes narrowed. She grabbed the toothbrush again, tapping it until almost no paint remained, then flicked it more gently. She went back and forth between the brushes, tilting her head this way and that.

Stacey worked in silence, not noticing any smells in the room, or the song being played, or the ticking of the classroom clock. When she put down her brush and stepped back, Ms. Moreno joined her. Standing side-by-side, they assessed their paintings.

While Stacey was occupied, Ms. Moreno had added the tops of dark trees to the bottom of her painting. Stacey’s was now a serene snowy landscape. The paintings both started the same way, and complemented one another, but each finished scene was an entirely unique version of the northern lights.

Stacey felt something release–as though the tension across her shoulders dissolved–as she realized what she was capable of creating. She never would have painted anything like this on her own.

“Seems like a change of perspective was all you needed,” Ms. Moreno said.

“Maybe.” Stacey nodded. “I’m glad I came.”

“You did a great job. Why don’t you take some paper and that small palette of watercolors with you?” Ms. Moreno told her. “You can practice at home and show me when you come back.”

“Oh, I don’t think…”

Ms. Moreno pushed the tin into Stacey’s hand and shrugged. “Either way, take it.”

“Thanks,” Stacey said, accepting the paints and stack of paper.

“I’m really glad you came tonight.”

As she drove home, Stacey kept mumbling Ms. Moreno’s words. Approach with intention. Be flexible with how it turns out.

The two-lane road had no street lamps, and the silver bullet’s headlights cut through the blackness. She thought of being in the art room, the water diffusing the darkness into shades of blue and gray and purple on the page, and how the brightness of the northern lights could only be visible when she left room for it. She thought of how she had screamed at her mom earlier. They’d both been so angry. So dark.

In the sky to the east, a full moon was rising. As she drove, the pale blue glow of the moonlight fell on the dark foothills and grassy fields giving the appearance of rolling waves. Stacey remembered the peaceful wave that passed through her as she painted. She wanted to hold tight to that feeling when she walked in the door at home.

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