Page 40 of Late Bloomer
I used to feel this heavy knot of guilt that I flit from one medium to the next—like I’m not a real artist because I can’t settle into a niche. But there’s so much beauty to be created, whether in clay or ink or charcoal, that it feels impossible to focus on only one. For the most part, I’ve come to terms with being flighty, but there’s still a gentle hum at the base of my skull that likes to tell me I’m an imposter every time I trade one form of art for another, playacting and perverting the dedication it takes to be a “real artist.”
I usually render my landscapes and still lifes with acrylics or ink, leaning into the pristine lines. Mother Nature has already done such a breathtaking job with her artwork, all I can hope is to capture it as closely to the original as possible. But portraits are different. The human body begs for watercolors. The soft lines. The ebbs and flows. The whims of the water and pigment spreading across the paper in a chase of the constant, subtle changes of people.
Faces in particular are hard to do justice. Someone’s expression in a moment is never just one emotion. There are layers and edges and hidden feelings all merging into a single instant. Watercolors capture that aching nuance.
I pick up my brush, swirling it in water, trying to pinpoint the spot I can tweak to make the entire thing perfect. I gave up perfection in any other aspect of my life long ago. It’s simply not possible with a brain like mine. But my art is different; it’s the better version of me, the one I wish people could know me by.
With a light swipe through a soft copper pigment, I touch the tip of the brush to the ends of Pepper’s hair, hoping to give it a bit more dimension.
Then everything falls apart.
The color spreads, bleeding from Pepper’s hair into the burgundy sweater she was wearing, the water tracking a path across the entire scene until it slams into Grandma Lou, small veins tracing toward her face.
All I can do is stare as the painting dissolves into a mess in front of my eyes.
It’s when the copper reaches toward Lou’s perfect white hair that I finally get enough sense to move my limbs, grabbing a paper towel and blotting at the watery surface.
I look at the absolute mess, my heart collapsing in on itself, the jagged edges slicing me fresh open. Every detail is ruined. Their faces are still recognizable, the majority of their features unsullied, but the rest is a maroon mess.
“Shit!” The tears are hot and quick when they spring up, a few landing on the damn painting, messing it up even further.
I push away from my desk with an angry shriek, pacing as I tear my hands through my hair.
Shit, shit,shit. I’ve been here so many times, it’s actually silly that it keeps happening. Being so close to something good. Something great. Then tinkering with it to death, killing the bright beautiful thing before it reaches its fullest potential.
I press my back to the wall, sliding to the floor. My shirt snags on the unfinished wood, the soft sound of the fabric ripping echoing around me.
Of course.
I sit there for a moment, the white-hot frustration diffusing out of me until I’m wrung out, every cell drained of the ability to care.
An unhinged burst of laughter peals from my throat as the tears continue to fall. This is typical. So typical. All I wanted was to create something nice for Pepper—an olive branch, something,anythingthat makes her see me as someone other than a total mess—but all I have is another failure.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my back pocket, using the heel of my free hand to scrub at my tears.
It’s a text from Ophelia.
We’ll be there in about an hour!!!!
Followed up by:
we’re so excited to see you we haven’t stopped screaming
That, at least, tugs a smile from me. I may be a chronic screwup, but at least my sisters will always love me.
I check the clock, then sigh. The party starts in two hours, and I don’t have enough time to make a fresh painting for Pepper or even come up with something semi-decent to give her. I’m in desperate need of a shower and like to allot for at least fifty minutes of stressing over what to wear before I end up throwing on a pair of shorts and my emotional support sweatshirt.
Pushing to stand, I walk over to my desk, grab a thick paintbrush, and dip it in the water.
I can’t look directly at the painting, the monster of failure sitting on it, threatening to bite me if I gaze too close. I swipe the wet brush around the perimeter of the paper, then swirl it through my golden pigment, touching it to the edges of the ruined portrait.
If I’m going to give Pepper something ruined, at least it will have some shimmer to it.
I still don’t look at it as I set the brush down and clean up my palette, shutting off the lights and trudging back to the house. I’ll let it dry and grab it once the party starts.
Diksha’s truck is parked on the gravel drive, and I hear her laugh as I let myself into the kitchen. Pepper’s low voice travels from the living room, and I take the stairs up to my room in a dead sprint, still feeling far too emotional to see her yet. WhenI’ve shut myself in, I glance at the mirror. My mascara has streaked down my cheeks, splotches of paint on my forehead and jaw looking like poorly healed bruises, eyes watery and red-rimmed.
At least my outsides reflect my insides.
