Inks and Paints
Picturesque. Chiaroscuro. Austere.
When my domain is filled with literature and my right hand is made only for fountain pens—allergic to
paintbrushes—I knew how immaculately I embodied irony every time I found myself getting drawn into
art exhibits instead of bookstores.
I love paintings. Never have I ever gotten myself a wrinkle after getting involved in the bandwagon
allegation when I spread the news that I was a fan of Van Gogh after searching his spectacularly crafted
Starry Night. There is something about paintings that pulls me in with their surrealism that I dropped
every single coin I had in a wishing fountain—praying to the heavens that I could trade my skills in
writing just to get qualified in the field of arts.
Every weekend, my body brings itself to this particular art museum in our city where various kinds of
local paintings were posted, each that has a story of their own. If I could squeeze my mind right, I knew
every lore of these masterpieces—all because I had spent the entire afternoons and evenings of my
Saturdays and Sundays in trying to warp myself inside their frame.
Slappy Hooper’s “Slip! Slop! Slap!” Could never best these arts’ tales when you can taste the tears you
shed upon staring at the smoothness of their brushstrokes that magically tells their stories.
No wonder why I love paintings.
All were heartfelt and aesthetically touching, except for that one painting on the rightmost part of the
museum. The brushstrokes were messy, and you could tell that it was harshly made. Even the splinters
of its frame were scattered on the floor that I couldn’t go nearer for a closer look. Why is this painting
posted here then?
The elements could be hardly described, but you could see that it was painted with shades of blue and a
bit of yellow. It was nothing short of a museum-worthy painting, if I had to be honest. And yet I couldn’t
help but try to decode it that 2/3 of my clock was spent on it.
Something felt bizarre, though. When I revisited it for the fourth time, it became more pleasing to my
eyes like the other paintings, but this one was more perplexing since it had an origin that forms a
tsunami of question marks by the pillars of my head. The more I look at it, the more it makes sense—as
though it was begging to be seen and understood and appreciated.
I signed an imaginary contract in my head, saying that I would not proceed to another painting unless I
got myself painted on that painting itself, where I could explore and find all the keys to unlock every
door in it, leading me to the light switch to put its secrets to light.
I became more and more fixated on this painting that I lost count of the times I visited it. This is the
thirtieth, I guess? I came earlier than usual today because something was whispering to me to do so. I
knew I no longer cared for the other paintings in this museum when I noticed that my feet followed the
same path back to this blue painting, tracing the footsteps of yesterday. The painting became just like
the first three words of this piece, to my horror. It’s now way, way more like a painting than it was when
I first laid eyes on it.
I scrutinized each detail of it and figured out that its shade became vivacious—the blue can no longer be
associated with that one idiom, and the yellow radiates the same light as the sun. It wasn’t like this
before, I swear. And all I can say is… it’s my first time seeing an old, abandoned painting become the
painting it had to be. After being left there, with no beholder to assure that its unique style was favored,
now it had reclaimed its title.
When it’s about time to leave the wonders of colors, I had to take a last glance at the painting because
something feels like it's going to be changed after tonight.
I didn’t act so fazed when it disappeared the next time I went to the museum since I already foresaw
this. And when I took a step at the exit of the gallery, I just knew that my shadow could no longer be
seen there again. I felt like my purpose there was long accomplished, and something miraculous
checked a box on my nonexistent bucket list.
The next thing I knew, I was exploring the stacks of books in the murk of my room until I finally found it
—the blue painting in the art museum transformed into a book… since it tells the same story, except
that some of its chapters can no longer be read. The brushstrokes were erased, and only the smudges of
ink are visible now.
What was once an artist’s muse is now a writer’s subject. And what was once a deserted, poorly crafted
painting is now an unfeigned, well-written prose.
