Some Stories

Notre Dame

"Um, a little bit here...like this...uh, yes that's better and done!" I finished my live commentary as I finally pulled my paintbrush away from the canvas. I had used warm colours this time. You know, Red, Yellow, Orange and the likes. I took five steps back as I did each time I finished a painting and looked at the final product.
I saw so many small mistakes which are mostly exclusive to the eye of the creator but if I saw it as a spectator, I saw beauty. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but it was one of my best efforts till date. She seemed to be glowing.
Notre Dame de Paris. It was almost as if she was rising out of the radiant pink and orange sky as the sun does every morning. As usual, I easily forgot that it was just a painting and got lost in the thoughts of the beautiful structure which is standing for centuries, majestic and its stature, witnessing human follies and grandeur alike. I was a fan of anything historic. The tales of What Once Was entertained others but they bewitched me and drew me towards them until I became one with what I beheld.
Notre Dame for me however, was all this and more. I loved her and admired everything about her but also felt a connection that went beyond an artist and a subject. I couldn't describe it in words no matter how hard I tried. I was sure of one thing though, that this fascination or obsession if you may, transcended mere enchantment.

*

"Gosh, didn't you sleep last night?" My Mom asked when I joined her in the dining room for breakfast.
"Not a wink," I smiled as I sat at the table.
She rolled her eyes. This was a common topic of conversation for us but the sender and the receiver of the question kept switching between the two of us. Mom and I both painted and frequently pulled all-nighters to finish what we started before we lost sight of it. Mom is the Head of the Art Department at the local University. Most of her paintings are displayed (and promptly sold) in the city's most reputed Art Gallery but some of them, more personal, adorn the walls of our home. Like the one in the dining room.
In the painting, a little girl, wearing a pink dress and silver crown is eating spaghetti and meatballs. Well, she is splattering it more than eating, evident by her stained dress and orangy blonde hair. You know what the best part about that painting is? The scene Mom painted both happened and didn't. Mom and I usually paint from our memories, twisting and turning them which does not distort our reality but adds a personal touch which is exclusive only to the painter. The girl in the painting is most definitely a distorted version of myself. I hate pink though, and I don't remember ever wearing a crown in my life. I love spaghetti and meatballs, Mom got that part right. But I am not a messy eater, Dad was. So she added something of him to the image of me. Just like she added her favourite colour to my attire.
I do this with my paintings all the time. Mostly I painted monuments and such, but sometimes, something would catch my eye as I jogged in the park and I would come home to paint it, adding some life of my own to what I saw just moments before.
"Are you done for tomorrow?" Mom now asked, eating her barely buttered toast.
"Yes, just finished the last one moments ago."
"Can I look at it before I go to work?" She always asked permission before seeing my paintings. She knew that I would show them to her anyway but she respected me enough to ask and I loved her for that.
The best thing about showing my work to Mom was that she saw it first as a critic, then as my mother.
"I can see some flaws in your technique and the blending could've been better here, and here," she pointed at two spots. I nodded and she continued, "You've come a long way, honey. I'm proud of you."
I accepted her critique without any sense of failure. I had long ago decided that the resolution to do better was much more productive than feeling a sense of failure about what you hadn't accomplished yet. If I wanted to get into that Art Programme, shrinking back from constructive criticism wasn't going to do me any good.
The Art Programme I was interviewing for was of six months. It took place twice a year, in seven cities across the world. One of those cities was the one I lived in. It was a great opportunity for me.
I spent the rest of the day getting ready for tomorrow. The candidates for the interview were selected on the basis of the sketches and/or paintings they had submitted online. The shortlisted candidates then were told to bring five works, other than what they submitted online to the interview. I chose three paintings of Notre Dame, one of my childhood memory of a dandelion swaying in the summer breeze and one of the sky changing colour as I jogged in the park.
Mom had advised me to stay away from any stressors so I had switched off my phone last night and had stayed away from the TV. When I had prepared everything for tomorrow, from the paintings to the documents to the outfit, I curled up in my bed with a book. I was sixteen chapters in when my eyes started drooping and I gave into a deep slumber.