Intermediate Fiction- A picture in a magazine
The Hummingbird
I’ve always seen the world in color. I mean of course everything has color, but I can feel it. The warmth of the sun on my cheeks spreads across my face in a golden yellow. The rain hitting my windshield in a January storm sends streaks of indigo through my veins. The blackness of the night in the late night hours fills me with the emptiness that comes from the absence of light. The dark red autumn leaves of November bring the most overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Everything is color. But every color is anything but a simple reflection of light.
Today I chose to fill my palette with deep purple and varying hues of turquoise and cerulean. My brush has seen it all, severely frayed at the ends, the paint chipping off of the wooden handle. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. This brush wasn’t merely a vessel through which I scattered acrylic paint, but my most faithful companion. We’ve spent plenty of time in this very studio creating a multitude of worlds way into the dark blue hours of the night. Some of the most wonderful pieces come in the hours before and after the sun leaves the sky. I’d wake up with green splotches dotting my forehead, rubbing the drowsiness from my eyes to see an exquisite meadow I thought I had only seen in my dreams.
This early winter morning is not unlike those days. I saw the burnt orange of the back of my eyelids as the light penetrating the window begged me to return to consciousness. I blinked rapidly a few times until my vision adjusted to the rays traveling directly into my pupils. I stood up and examined my canvas with my eyes, and then with my mind. Where am I going with this, I thought. I picked up my palette that my mother had surprised me with when I found out my painting won first place at our local art competition. I never know what I am feeling or even what direction I am taking a piece of art until it is finished. This royal purple flower that graces my canvas appears very melancholy as rain scatters itself diagonally across the scene. I heave out all the air in my lungs in a deep sigh.
“Even that flower seems to be having a better day that you.” I turn around sharply to find a tall lady with her arms folded leaning against the doorway. Her jet black hair hung loose over her broad shoulders, and the sympathetic look on her face assured me that my canvas had told her all that she needed to know. I sat down on my stool and tried to get some of the dried navy blue paint off of my fingernails.
“Well, you’re not wrong,” I spoke quietly as if not to wake the rest of the world at this early hour.
“I’m guessing you spent the entire night in here?” She asked even though she already knew the answer. She slowly walked over taking a seat on the chair next to me.
“What gave it away? The glazed over look in my eyes, or the fifty shades of purple that’s making me look like I have some kind of rare skin disease?” That earned me a slight laugh. I looked up at the woman who has been my creative mentor for the last two years of my life. Dr. Alison Montgomery, head of the visual arts department of the entire university. Later, she would beg me to just call her Aly, she wasn’t much for titles. Her oceanic eyes seemed to hold a thousand years of wisdom.
“You know you’re going to have to go home at some point, this place doesn’t come with a shower or a decent sized closet.” Now it was my turn to utter a laugh. I have made this place my sacred sanctuary for the past couple years of my life. Like a safe haven, a shelter from this hurricane of a world.
“Don’t worry, I was just about to head out anyways, I don’t particularly want to spend any more time staring at this depressed plant.” I took my palette and walked over to the little metal sink to wash away the deep blue.
“Have I ever told you about my favorite piece of art I’ve ever made?” I turned off the water and shook my head. You’d think after all this time I would know. I guess I never really asked. “It was quite some time ago, I was exactly your age and so utterly frustrated with myself for not knowing where I wanted to be, where I needed to be.” I put down my palette and started to work the dried teal paint out of my brush as she continued. “I made art for myself. Not to be shared, not to be seen and certainly not to be criticized.” At this, I felt uneasy. I knew exactly what she was getting at. “I knew that my art meant something, but it was something I wanted to keep for myself because if anyone saw it and decided that it completely sucked, that would be a reflection of my own feelings, my own thoughts that were poured out onto that canvas in the most intricate array of brushstrokes.”
I was now completely fixated on her face as she spoke, a single tear breeched my lash line as it traveled in a perfect line down the side of my cheek. “What was it that you painted?” I asked quietly, fighting for my voice to stay steady.
“A hummingbird.” That’s it? She got me all worked up over a picture of a bird? Not a sweeping landscape of a place she used to love. Not a self-portrait that reveals how she really feels about herself. Not some kind of creative metaphor for life or the challenges of it. A bird.
My tears dried, and I blinked at her silently pressing for some kind of further explanation. She took a somewhat deep breath and continued.
“I know it sounds silly, childish even, but your reaction is exactly why that painting hasn’t seen the light of day in twenty years.” I stared into her icy blue eyes expectantly. “I had been in the studio day and night for weeks struggling to create something that would be good enough for my senior project. I had never felt so unsure of what I was doing or why I was even trying anymore. One morning, I woke up with my brush in one hand, and on the other hand was a small bird. I wasn’t sure if it was real or if was still dreaming. Its feathers were bright green and sapphire, and it was silent as if its intention wasn’t to wake me. And in a quick moment it took off straight out the open window and into the day.
“I could not stop thinking about that bird for days. I worked tirelessly to capture exactly what I felt in that moment that I awoke to this beautiful creature resting upon my hand. And when I was finally finished, I took it all in and it even brought me to tears. And I was so incredibly proud to show my professor something that I created out of a feeling, something that meant something pretty significant to me. And you know what he said to me?”
“What did he say?” I anticipated the answer before she even spoke.
“He looked at me and asked when I was going to grow up and make real art.” A twin tear fell down her face. “And so I put down my brush for longer than I care to remember. Years down the line when I was cleaning out my attic I stumbled upon that little green bird, and it reminded me that my art means something, even if I’m the only one can see it in that moment.”
I glanced over at my gloomy purple flower, and I gave it a half-smile.
“Your art means something. It’s what got you here. And one day it’ll get someone else where they need to go.”