A Little Death

 

Kamil was in front of his mortal enemy.

A canvas.

A white one.

No paint had tarnished it for days, and he hated how it made him want to dig his nails into his face and claw out the tender flesh, splattering blood all over it just for it to be finally alive.

Every time he sat on his stool, holding his paintbrush reluctantly -as if this whole process was alien to him- queasiness washed over his body, a wave soared high to the sky and crashed him mercilessly to the shore. He tried wading through the waters, but other waves soon followed until he begrudgingly dropped his brush.

Time passed; Kamil still couldn’t put color on the white: It was supposed to be easy, coming to him like a second nature the way an infant reached out for his mother- after all, he was an artist, Or was he?

 He had an exposition coming up in two months, and he could already hear the words of critics buzzing in his ears, just like the last time -coated with sweetness and palpable sarcasm -Although he had genuine compliments and letters gushing over his work, he couldn’t find solace in them. The same way a ballet dancer leaped high, taking in the awestruck eyes of her audience and how they held their breath, waiting for the fall, because as great as the momentum could be, it was easy to forget it.

 His mind was in turmoil, vile words hopping left and right, squeezing in the seams of his thoughts. They crept in, laid their eggs, and waited for him to pick up a brush to finally hatch.

No longer under the blessing of Apollo, Kamil’s life shrank like an arid land, and so he started having days where he would claim that he renounced art altogether, but the moment the words got out of his mouth, his tongue became laden as if punishing him for uttering such blasphemy, followed by shame and guilt tormenting him for giving up on himself. Even though Kamil’s hands could no longer breathe life into his thoughts through colors and shapes, he found it hard to part ways with art: Had Kamil given up on art, he would cease to be.

In an attempt to refuel his drive to create, Kamil went to art galleries, only to leave with an ugly heart soaked with envy. He looked at artworks, trying to admire them, however, they only seemed to grow bigger, looming over him with a suffocating beauty that transcended words. Within those moments, Kamil realized that he was never destined for greatness; He was no Monet nor Van Gogh to encapsulate beauty. He was no Greek Hero, for his name was never written in the stars. It was a simple fact - though it made his heart churn- he had to live with it.

One day, Kamil’s sister asked him to oversee an art workshop at her school. He couldn’t say no, and that’s how he found himself circled by dozens of kids.

Kamil didn’t know how he was supposed to teach them art when he couldn’t touch his canvas for a month. Before getting sucked into the whirlpool of dread and self-deprecation, he decided to stop. This was simple. They were kids, they liked colors. So, he started with the basics. How mixing blue and red turned into purple, and if we wanted a lighter shade we added a bit of white, and so on. With just that, the kids painted on their mini canvas, spattering paint everywhere.  It was an explosion of colors, color filled the classroom within minutes and it befuddled Kamil how these kids had not hesitated to pick up a brush and paint whatever was on their minds. How art seemed to embrace them fully like a mother embraced her kids, unapologetically and naturally. It didn’t seem like it was withering away from them -the way it did with Kamil-since they didn’t see art as a means for greatness.

A dragon that looked more like a mouse, a crocodile that seemed like a cat. Who was Kamil to judge? they were the painters so naturally they had the power to label what was on their canvas, and as long as they seemed happy with discovering the basic rules of colors, who was Kamil to divest them of such joy? They were eager to show off their work, joyous that they created another realm of their own.

That night, Kamil picked up his brush and, without hesitation, painted -for it was as simple as that - a brush stroke followed another as he learned to breathe again.

By : Hiba Abbassi