Page 1 of Broken Pieces
Pacing back and forth, I swear I can almost hear the big white blank canvas mocking me as I wonder what in the hell is going on with this rut I’ve been in for—I glance at the calendar in the corner of my room to make sure I have the timing right—four weeks!?
Grabbing my sweaty hair, I reach for the largest paint brush, securing my hair in a messy bun. Of course, leave it up to me to use anythingbuta conventional hair tie. Once, I used straws because I had nothing else around—true story. And it didn’t hold my hair very well.
Looking around, I admire every detail of my paint studio. I live in a two bedroom loft in downtown Chicago, which isn't cheap, but I got a lucky deal. Definitely meant to be. This is the smaller bedroom of the two with a floor toceiling window that overlooks the busy streets and buildings. The rest of the room is sort of a mess. There are canvases all around of paintings I’ve done over the years. My favorite one is front and center of the room, and it’s the one I look at when I’m feeling hopeless and just so, so lost. This one is the shadow of a woman in mute colors. Mostly black, with a few strokes of gray and white. Her body is not all there. It’s just part of her chest, slightly to the left with bright red petals scattered all over the canvas. It’s funny how this painting reflects exactly how I’ve felt my whole life.
Scattered. Broken. Lost.
Which is why it’s called“Scattered.”What can I say? It’s fitting.
Every stroke in these canvases tells a story. That’s the thing about art, you know? If people were to pay closer attention, they would all tell you something. From tragic and sad to epic and passionate stories. A painted canvas can tell youeverythingandnothingall at once, depending on how you look at it.I’ve never been good at expressing my feelings, but painting them? Well, that’s a whole other story.
Standing in front of the stupid canvas that’s currently on my wooden easel in the center of the room, I grab my oval dark wood painting palette, stained by countless painting sessions, and spread some of my oil paints. Mostly the basics—black, white, gray. I spread the smallestamount of all the mute colors on the palette, then grab a medium-sized paint brush and dip it in the white, then a little in the gray since it’s too dark for my liking. I don’t use bright colors often, unless it’s really necessary to convey an emotion or tell a certain story.
There’s no reason to. I’m numb, so my paintings simply show the same.
I stroke the brush against the canvas swiftly. I have no idea what I’m going to paint, but I’m determined to figure it out as I go. I keep doing random strokes here and there, mixing other colors as I continue. There’s no life to this painting, and I don’t think there will be. This is how my life has been feeling lately.
Muted. Dark.
In my 25 years of life, I’ve never been in a rut. It’s kind of weird considering I’m always surrounded by art. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It’s not like I’m a full-time artist. My mother made sure of that.
Ever since I was little, I had very little interest in extracurriculars. It was one of the things I most hated about myself. I tried many hobbies from sports to dancing, and wasted countless hours during my childhood trying to find something—anything— that would ignite a spark in me until I foundtheone.
Art.
At the age of twelve, I fell in love with art.
At the age of twelve, my mother also broke my heart for the first time.
The memory is still fresh like it was yesterday. Funny how the day I fell in love with art relates to one of my most bitter memories. My mother never approved of my paintings, or my love for art in general. The first time I painted something I was actually proud of, it was a meadow with white, blue, and purple flowers. These were my mother’s favorite colors, and I wanted to paint her something to make her feel better since my parents fought a lot. She was always under so much stress and always took it out on me. I knew she didn’t mean to—or at least that’s what I like to think to make myself feel better.
After I gifted her the small painted canvas and told her I wanted to quit cheerleading to pursue art, our relationship took a turn for the worse.
You will stay in cheerleading and you will like it, Then, you will go to school and choose a serious profession. Painting is a stupid hobby, and you’re not even that good.
Tears fill my eyes at the reminder of the moment that altered my life and self-esteem forever. That’s the same moment she took the painted canvas from my hands and threw it in the trash.
I kept up with painting and drawing when I could, despite my mom making it rough, and stayed on the varsity cheerleading team like she demanded. It was always the plan, after all. My parents weren’t able to afford college,so I joined a sport, became good at it, and got a full athletic scholarship. And I won’t lie—I wasgood. One of the top flyers of the varsity team. Talented enough that it landed me a full ride at the University of Kentucky, where I studied business administration with a minor in history. I worked my ass off in high school, focused on all my AP classes and got enough credits toward my degree that I graduated from college at 20 years old. I took so many credits and worked myself to the bone because I didn’t want to be there. I just wanted toescape. I could have easily gotten a full ride at NYU if my mother would have given me the opportunity. But that’s a choice she took away from me without a second thought.
Even though I didn’t pursue a career as an artist, I did choose the next best thing—becoming a senior curator for one of the top museums in Chicago. I’m around art all the time, and I get to discover new talent and learn the history behind such masterpieces. The canvas is my stage, the colors my actors, and the art lovers my audience. Needless to say, I’m an art geek. Once you get me talking, I will never stop.
Art has been the only constant in my life, so the rut definitely isn’t helping me right now. Deep down, I know why I’m feeling like this. Art has always been an escape for me, but I feel so trapped in my life right now, it’s affecting everything. Including the thing I’m most passionate about.
Trapped in a career that isn’t really my passion.
Trapped in a life I want to escape.
Trapped in the what-if’s?
Just… fucking trapped.
Staring at the half-painted canvas in front of me, I shake my head and grab it, and throw it across the room. As I’m pacing back and forth brewing in my built up frustration, my phone pings with a text.
Sophia: Girl, where the hell are you?
Shit. I totally forgot.
Me: Lost track of time, omw!
