A Painting of Words

Charissa - Gulfport, Mississippi
Entered on December 12, 2008
Age Group: 30 - 50
Themes: creativity
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I believe the written word can be as vivid as any color, and a well written story can paint a picture as grand as any artist, but it took time for me to believe. I always dreamed of being an artist. The idea of creating life through strokes of a brush and pigment pressed to canvas enticed my soul, and created a yearning to obtain a level of talent beyond what had been given to me at birth. I tenderly admired the works of painters gone by, and in turn they spurred my own visions. They were there, in my head, locked away, and yearning to be shared in the form of similar paintings. I studied the works of great masters and pictured myself mimicking their brush strokes. I poured over books, and walked down the quiet halls of museums, my eye devouring the tiniest details. Over and over I tried, and canvas after canvas was ruined. Despite my studies and practice, my hand was unable to create what lived in my mind’s eye. The breath I longed for my painted subjects to possess never materialized, and they remained dead in all of their two dimensional glory. My failure, and seemingly lack of true artistic talent, afforded me a pain which stung my ego, and pushed my creative self into a dark, barren place. I would never be the artist I envisioned, counted among masters, and the pictures in my mind would eventually find home in my grave.

It took time to accept I could never pick up a brush and share what I held inside, and in time I picked up a pen instead. The words which spilled from the ink were just as vivid and alive as any color I had ached to see on a canvas. Here was my paint brush. Here was my art. The words which etched sloppily against the paper, written by my hand, brought my thoughts into the world, a world I was afraid would never be able to see them. My subjects took life, and as I closed my eyes to envision every facet, they effortlessly transcribed to my paper. I was unable to share in visible color what hid in my imagination, but in black and white I no longer had to hide. My pen shouted my visions, and my paper beat with their life. I was an artist.