Page 103 of Follow My Voice
She sighs. “Why don’t you take a break? You can rejoin the art club next month after the exhibit.”
I stare at my mother’s portrait. I’d been trying to capture the beauty of her hair, which she’d already begun to lose. I force myself to smile at the teacher. “Okay, I’ll come back for the painting when it dries.”
That was the last picture I painted. On some level I think I like the fact that it was of my mother’s face.
“Klara Rodríguez,” an unfamiliar voice calls from the door. I turn to see Mann. She’s tall and thin with white hair in a messy bun. “Talented painter from Cooper High School, winner of several district art contests going back as far as elementary school. I’ve seen you watching the classes. I’m glad you finally came in, welcome.”
“Thank you.”
Mann studies me for a few seconds and then begins walking toward me. “Shall I prepare a canvas for you?”
“No.” I shake my head energetically.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t come to paint.”
“Really? The look in your eyes seemed to suggest the opposite.”
I don’t respond.
“When was the last time you painted?”
“A long time ago.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you afraid of, Klara?”
My eyes linger over an almost finished painting of a sunset. “Of myself.” The words leave my mouth of their own accord.
“Are you afraid of what you might see of yourself reflected on the canvas?”
“I guess.”
“So?” she says, as she begins to set up a canvas and paints.
“So?”
“So, aren’t we artists all a jumble of emotions, of fears? Isn’t our very sensitivity what enables us to be inspired?” Mann says with a smile. “Art is always an expression of the artist’s inner life. We don’t remember a painting for its beauty, but for how it made us feel when we looked at it.” She guides me over to the blank canvas. “You don’t have to paint anything elaborate. I just want you to permit yourself to touch and feel the paint, to shout out your fears, if necessary, to release all your emotions.”
My hand trembles as I sink my fingers into the black paint. It’s been so long. I lift my hand and watch the paint drip down my fingers and into the center of my palm. With tears in my eyes, I press my hand against the canvas.
“Oh, you’ve painted another portrait of me, baby. It’s wonderful, and look how beautiful my hair looks. Hopefully it will grow back looking like that again soon.”
I pull my hand away from the canvas. “I can’t.”
Mann takes my wrist and places my hand back on the canvas, moving it smoothly to create sinuous black lines. “Yes, you can.” She takes my other hand and dips it into the red paint, then moves it across the canvas to make red lines beside the black ones.
I feel tears begin to roll down my cheeks and drip from my chin. I sigh and feel a sob caught in my throat.
“Cry, scream, do what you have to do. Your art is your exit, the doorway out of all that.”
“I’m broken… Everything I create will be broken.”
Mann releases my hands. “Art is to console those who are broken by life,” she whispers.
