Page 164 of Ink Deep Devotion

“You can market it however you want. It’s still shit and an insult to the meaning of art. Look where you are. Italian artisart.” She touches her heart.“It’s memories and moments captured, not mediums that can be interpreted numerous ways.”

A ripple of anger washes over my skin.“Art is expressive. It doesn’t have to be a detailed portrait.”

She looks down her nose at me.“Says a coward. Art is clear and precise. It’s history, a memory. It’s a story! Tell me a story, American. Tell meyourstory.” she walks away and returns with a mirror that she clips onto my easel.“Look in the mirror and paint me a self-portrait, Mila.”

“No.” I grimace, eyeing that mirror like a giant spider clinging to the walls of my mind.

“Why? You have the skill. I know it, I see it, but as soon as you start to make a shape that resembles a person, you scurryaway and scribble over the lines, filling the canvas with marks to hide it.”

“That’s not what I do!”It is. I make scars. I did them on myself once, and now I do them in my art.

“It is,” she shrugs and smirks. I curl my fingers in so they don’t reach out and smack her.

“You will paint a portrait in my class or nothing at all.”

What the fuck is her problem?

I’m paying her to take this class! No wonder it is nearly empty. Only someone insane would pay to endure this.

“This is bullshit.” I spit.

“What’s bullshit is you refusing to paint a self-portrait. Why?”

“Because I hate myself!” I shout. The sound of pencils halting on the paper fills the silence after my outburst. But I can’t stop, neither can the tears coming down my eyes.“I don’t want to look in the mirror.” I smack it off the easel like a child lashing out.

Shatter!It breaks beneath my feet.

Unphased, Camilla kicks pieces away with the tip of her black leather heels.“I didn’t say the class was over.” She barks at the others.

“I still want my portrait, American.”

Fuck this shit!Standing, I grab my charcoal so hard it snaps. I press it deep into the paper, making a question mark.“I don’t know who I am!” I scribble over it until the paper is nearly black.“There!” I throw the charcoal down.“There’s your stupid self-portrait.” I grab my backpack, leaving behind all my art supplies, and rush towards the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Camilla’s voice is teaming with pride.

“Fuck off!”

???

Two weeks later.

“It takes one second, one moment of hesitation, for your attacker to gain the advantage.”Ouch!I look down and see my thumb curled into my fist. I quickly correct it.

“When you strike, you have to be committed! You can not self-doubt. Don’t let fear take hold of you. You will be no better than a leaf brushing against a slab of granite. Hit! Hit strong. Be a hammer, not a leaf! Now go! One, two jabs, jab, uppercut!”

I mimic the instruction on the screen, punching the air with all my might.Oops!I lose my balance and gracefully spin around to face the computer screen. I’ve been taking self-defense classes, which I find for free online. I look like a fool punching the air, but it makes me…optimistic.

For the first time since I ran, I’m happy. I’m still scared, but I realized I don’t need to rid myself of fear; anxiety makes you alert and allows you to cherish the safe moments you are gifted with.

By the time I’m done punching the invisible attacker, I take a shower, jump onto my squeaky bed, and grab my sketchbook.

I haven’t returned to Camilla’s class, and I know why.

She was right. I used abstract art as a deflection. Portrait drawing requires you to not just look at your subject, but in order to really capture them, you have to dig deeper. Like painting the secretive smirk the Mona Lisa has or those wide piercing eyes like the Lady with the Pearl Earring possesses, it’s about taking a moment of honesty, a truth, a secret, a soul and forever sealing it onto the canvas.

I knew if I looked at the people surrounding me, my canvas would be dark.

Maybe that’s what the world needs. More light shining in the darkness.

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