Edited by: Ajitesh Vishwanath
The empty corridors of the museum come to life with the paintings that decorate its walls. As I walk by, each piece looks strikingly different, both in the colours used and in the story it tries to spell out. One painting in particular catches my attention. It is in an otherwise unnoticed corner, but a faint spotlight unveils a splash of colours. I stand in front of it motionless…staring endlessly and feel incredibly at ease. The painting holds my emotions like a mother cradles her baby. What had gone into the making of this masterpiece, I wonder. More importantly, what has become of the artist who painted it?
The story of this piece starts like that of all others. Once upon a time, there was a blank white canvas. This canvas began to fill up, as new experiences emerged, embodying every memory, every thought that arose. Joy splashed in the middle. Pencil outlines of curiosity, that probably got painted over. Tainted bits of failure. Grief, yearning and the weight of guilt imprinting on the corners. After all, nothing could shelter grief quite like art.
Then, there was colour. The blue of sleepless nights and of lapping waves. The blue of Skittles left on the tongue. Yellow, streaking the sides of the canvas. Yellow, like the first highlighter owned. Yellow like life’s lemons. Yellow like the Coldplay song. Cerulean dreams, mocha stains, mauve nails and the pink of health. Mostly, there was red. The colour of the artist’s love and the colour of her lost wars.
As the seasons changed, the present became the past and the colours would fade away. So the artist would pick up the brush and paint again. Sometimes she would softly dab the colour on the canvas, other times she would blotch the paint. No matter how many times she repainted, or what technique she used, it seemed incomplete. Gradually, she started adding colours and textures that other artists used; gently blending these into her existing painting. Sometimes, the shades were bold, they did not blend but instead, created heavy contrasts. Depth, intensity, colour. Maybe this was what her piece needed after all.
Light and shadow danced on her canvas, revealing a new story every day. But, the artist never stopped. Tirelessly she would work, but the result would always be flawed. She polished it so much, slowly, that it began to resemble a mirror. As though it looked directly into the eyes of the viewer and said, tell me about your story and I will tell you mine. Therein lay the beauty of her art. It was empathetic. Perhaps a little imperfect, but beautiful like the artist who had created it.
I could only imagine how radiant this painting once would have been and the efforts that went into making it. It shows. To me, no flaw in it is apparent. It looks fascinating…exactly as it is. It now hangs before me, a dim light escaping from a blanket of dust that the untold stories had tucked themselves into and gone to sleep.
I do not know the artist, perhaps I never will. However, I want her to know that the work she left behind is appreciated. We go on about our lives, casually sketching our everyday moments, not knowing the bigger picture we create.We do not give up, sometimes we find the will to go on, and sometimes we find a muse. Either way, someone then comes along and shapes meaning from our masterpiece. When someone, someday walks into this museum of incomplete paintings that is this world, I hope they take a moment to stand in front of mine. I wish they trace my story with their gaze and they find it thronging with life. Just as I found hers.