Black Beginnings

Black Beginnings

She watched the black paint spread, taking over and creating that ominous feeling. It seemed to take on a life of its own as it slid down the canvas. She delighted in the effect the black had on her painting. The painting, like herself, had been a source of joy and light once. Now, both had gone cold, masked beneath a dark exterior.
As a girl, her favorite color had been purple. Purple was bright and happy – not quite as cliched as pink, but girly nonetheless. Color was often a subtle way in which she expressed herself. With time, her favorites shifted to the cool colors: blues and greens. Although blue still appealed to her, black and blood-red fascinated her now, slowly creeping into her wardrobe and her thoughts. People didn\'t understand what she was saying via the rainbow. When she felt good, she dressed in bright colors. Inevitably, something awful happened on those days. Most of the time, at least one article of black clothing adorned her person. This was comfortable for her, but didn\'t necessarily mean she was \"goth\" or was depressed. It was just easier.
The transition between the two ends of the spectrum had been a hard one. One day: all blue, alive. The next: black and lifeless. It confused the world around her and caused frustration. Who was she to try and avoid a stereotypical label?! And so she was just labeled \"weird.\" She didn\'t think she was that strange, but supposed that strangeness was a valid interpretation based solely upon the shallowest determinate: appearance. So what? her nails were black, sometimes her hair was blue, green, black, brown, whatever…. Freedom of expression, man, that\'s what it\'s all about.
She began to express herself through black and white photography, and painting and drawing. These mediums seemed adverse to one another, just like her former and present selves. One art form is devoid of color entirely, relying upon composition and technical skill to create a connection with the viewer, whereas the potential for color, vibrancy, and experimentation with other mediums is high. Despite its potential, however, she was often drawn to pencil sketches, limiting her palette even then to shades of gray.
She tried color, she really did. But it wasn\'t a good fit – her art seemed flat, unreal. It was the same when she tried to \"lighten up,\" both physically and emotionally. Always when looking back, the colorful experiences seemed stale. A day spent at the beach, fun and bright though it was at the time, resulted in pain and blistering sunburn. Maybe she just needed practice. Surely, with practice and patience, she could work well with colors and with happiness. Her paintings would gain the depth that they had been so sorely lacking. It would take determination to sit down and be open to the possibility that maybe this time, everything will come out true to life, full of color, that everything was not destined for failure.
But the past attempt hadn\'t worked. That was why she stands here now, watching the black envelop her once-bright painting. It had been a self-portrait, done entirely in warm colors: reds, oranges, yellows, pinks. It presented a polar-opposite view of how she saw herself and of how she felt. Something wasn\'t right about it. No person should have orange eyes – they should be blue, blue, black and blue! The eyes weren\'t the only issues, though. The painting was eerie and didn\'t sit right with her. She couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.
She had tried the same approach with her attitude. Presenting a smiling face to the world, and all that nonsense. Somehow her grin looked more like a grimace, her laugh felt forced. No, this simply wouldn\'t do. She reverted back to her old ways, her old clothes. Some things aren’t meant to change.
And so, fed up with everything, she poured the black paint on. Thicker, layer after layer. It was beautiful. She thought she would start again when the black dried. It would be such a shame to waste a canvas like that. Yes, that was exactly it! She would try the warm self-portrait again, but over the black. It would show through in some places, but that was okay. It wouldn\'t be fake, it would be gradual and right. Some of who she had been would always show through. She realized that you cannot force yourself to become a whole new person overnight, and you cannot sever all ties with your past. It doesn\'t work – everything will convey that flat feeling of a poorly constructed facade to the viewer, whether they are judging the art or the artist herself.
It must be real change, from the heart, no matter how dark that heart has been made out to be or how dark it truly was. There is always some light, some life within even the darkest of places. She saw this now and knew what she had to do.
She sits, waiting for the paint to dry.