Artist or Writer?

For anyone who holds multiple passions in their hearts, the dilemma is always this; which is the bigger part of who I am?

What do I commit to? Which do I hold at a higher priority? When I am asked, which should I say is my true passion?

These questions plague me, and always have. I am consistently torn between paint covered fingertips and a brush in my hand or a keyboard and infinite worlds just within my reach. When I begin to work on one passion, I am consistently guilty for not spending enough time on the other. Oh, and when I don’t have time to do either? I am not worth anything.

The truth is, I am not a writer or a painter, I am a creative. Even when I am not devoting time to my craft, I am still a creature of the arts. My bones are etched in words I have yet to write. My eyelids are colored by paintings not yet fully drafted. Each thought is devoted to the inspiration that flows like water between the cracks I am so desperate to fill with passion. Each new movie, book, song, and story sparks a unrelenting fire I have yet to figure out how to fully quench. For a while, I believed that selling my art, following social media trends, and building an art based community only was the sole way to begin putting my art into the world. Recently however, at the urge of my biggest supporters (you know who you are) I decided it was time to share the other slice of my soul. My writing.

Beginning at age six I found solace in putting a pencil to paper, forging worlds of my own. Though the passion started with writing a short poem about my cat, Cuddle Bug, whom I loved very much and thought he should absolutely be read a poem about how much I loved him. It was very moving, I’m sure. Eventually, the deep feelings of love began to spread. The lines of paper became roads in which I traveled to the most beautiful, and darkest, parts of my own mind. In high school I began to fill notebooks upon notebooks with random poems, short stories, and even the first beginnings of a true blue novel. I take pride in reading what I wrote then, knowing the young girl that was brave enough to begin had so much passion and love in her heart that it created whole worlds. Finding myself in adulthood has been a consistent search for that young girl again, the one who dared to write what she wanted, regardless if anyone would ever read it. The girl that created for the hell of it, without fear of judgment. Somewhere through the years my creations became more for the people around me than myself. The romantics faded and reality set in. I became scared of baring my art and writing, because that in turn meant baring my soul.

I’d like to romanticize again, find the beauty in even the smallest of moments, and know that that fear means I am living the life that I truly want.

So, for my first blog post I would like to share the story that mixed both sides of myself; The Artist and The Writer. Please enjoy my story The Painting, and imaginative take on what the narrative could be like if a painting had fallen in love with its artist.

I sincerely hope you enjoy,

Elsie Vian

The Painting

Coarse bristles drifted around a titanium white canvas like an ice skater would her rink. Vibrant viridian stained its surface, blending away the white base like spring melting away the bitterness of winter. As each paint layer was applied, a picture formed and grew in its complexity—scarlet, almond, burnt umber, cadmium yellow—all joined together on the stretched canvas.

Shadows moved as colors settled into the canvas. Colors blended in just the right spots, the artist humming with delight as her painting came together. A fine-tipped brush added the last details, just a bit of titanium white to add a sparkle to her subject's eyes. And suddenly he came alive. 

Burnt umber and titanium eyes strained, tracking his artist as her fingertips left the brush on her palette. Her eyes bore into her masterpiece, the corners of her lips curving in approval, their rose-pink color captivating his thoughts. Desperation consumed him. He tried to smile, and yet his scarlet lips had not dried, their edges dropping. Her lips dropped too as the wet paint fell away from where she had meticulously set it. 

Like a woman in love, she gently brushed the corner of his lips back into place with her fingertip. The touch of her skin to his paint sent ripples of excitement through his colors. 

His artist began to pack up, with her sienna hair a mess and her magenta dress splattered in his colors. She had carelessly wiped her paintbrushes on her clothing as if it were an apron. The painting did not want to see her go, worried she would not return to him. 

All he could do was watch through clouded eyes as his creator swished through the studio like a paintbrush of her own design. He dared not move his lips again for the fear that he would ruin her creation was too great. Though if he did, would she touch him so softly again?

She appeared before him once again. The last golden rays of the sun shone through the windows and gently caressed her skin. A soft glow bounced from her –her eyes suddenly made of honey and gold. Of course, the sun would grant her his rays; she was a work of art herself. The painting could not complain, for the sun’s bias would also be his own. He admired her. She admired him. 

And then she left. His first home, the studio, became dark and grey. His artist took all of the colors from his surroundings, and he wished he could follow too. The sun’s rays left with her as if her absence gave him no reason to shine. The painting could understand, he did not have a purpose if he was not in her presence. He was to be beautiful for her. To be vibrant for her. He wished he could smile; maybe it would bring her back. 

The moon’s rays came and went, illuminating the studio in silver light and sparkles of stardust. The morning sun returned in a grey fashion, for she was still not around. The painting felt dry then, his colors no longer fresh and dripping. He wiggled his shoulders, which barely touched the corners of his canvas. He could not move much, but he allowed his paint to settle into all the little divots and imperfections the canvas held. He would cover them all up so she could not see. He was to be perfect for her. 

The painting heard a voice, her voice. Golden rays split through the grey of the studio. 

“Trust me, the new addition is going to be a hit for the gallery. I promise,” she said. Her voice was like a pearlescent sound to him, glittering waves of sound gliding through the air. Jingling keys followed suit, and she stepped through the door. He felt the room take a breath. She was meant to be here. All the colors of his world returned with her. 

Another woman followed behind her, gasping as she laid eyes upon him. She was beautiful —a mix of chestnut and cedar, scarlet and crimson, navy and aquamarine. However, she did not compare to his sienna and honey. 

“Oh, sweetheart, this is -this is incredible,” chestnut and cedar cooed. His creator grinned, her smile so white he thought she outshone the sun. 

“I’m very proud of this one. The paint should be dry now. I’ll check it, but then we can start packaging everything up.”

Packaging… everything? Before he could finish his panicked thought, her hand was gracing him with her touch. It was her full palm this time, warm and soft like the touch of summer wind. She gently brushed her hand along his surface, checking for any wet spots and imperfections. Sienna and honey would find none. The painting wanted to melt as she pulled her hand away. She nodded and smiled at her friend. A pearly white smile that made his wait for her seem trivial.

An eternity passed, the two of them working diligently to pack the other paintings in her studio with love and care. Bubble wrap, brown wrapping paper, and cardboard packaging were soon to be his fate, too. His colors felt too dry, too constricted. He did not want to be packaged; he did not want to be hidden away from her gaze. He had no choice. 

Her hands gently held his edges as she wrapped him over and over in bubble wrap. His world was now blurred, the cyan and golden air mixing into an ashen blur. He missed her greatly, even as he could still feel her hands against his wooden frame. 

“Think you’ve got enough bubble wrap on that one?” chestnut and cedar chuckled, her voice muffled. 

“I know, I know. I just really don’t want him to be damaged; he’s the most important addition to my gallery tonight.” 

He was important. She loved him as he did her. Even as his world went dark, he vibrated with his joy; he was sure his colors were extra bright now. He would keep them that way for when she would lay her eyes on him again. 

The wait did not worry his colors, even in his now dark world. Knowing he was important to her, he would wait for all existence and still be as bright. 

When the cyan color began to return to his burnt umber eyes and the bubble wrap and cardboard were removed, he was disappointed that he did not see his artist. A man hung him gently against an eggshell white wall, the hook fitting perfectly against the notch in the painting's frame. The man lingered for a moment, admiring the painting, but left to hang others still clad in cardboard. 

The paintings were hung around the walls, the gallery full to the brim. He waited patiently in the soft yellow lighting for his artist to return to him. The panic of before washed away as he noticed he was hung in the middle of the room, red ropes gently protecting him from the outside. He really was important. He felt another piece of artwork hung next to him, yet he did not care to look, for his artist stepped through the doors.

Sienna and honey walked in, draped in crimson, a diamond glass containing bubbled gold held delicately in her hand. There was her smile again, the brightest in the room. He felt his love for her pour out of him; he worried his colors would run with the overwhelming feeling. He wished they would, so she would touch him again. 

Finally, she made her way to him, standing next to a gentleman of steel and Mars black.

“This is just exquisite, how much?” he asked, his eyes only barely leaving the painting. The same panic that had crept along the painting's wooden edges before crept along again.

“I do apologize, this one is not for sale. Neither are,” she said in all her elegance. The painting felt himself breathe with relief, he did not want to leave her. As she spoke, another man of burnt umber and mars black came up and placed his almond hand on her crimson dress. 

“This exhibit is my wife’s most prized creation,” he said with a dazzling smile to match hers. She snorted a laugh. 

“You only think that because they are paintings of you and me, my love.”

The painting rippled with delight. He stared at his artist’s husband, at himself in truer form. Scarlet, almond, burnt umber, cadmium yellow, and mars black. The painting suddenly knew what he looked like, and why his colors ached for his artist. He was made through her love, her devotion -he was made in the image of her soulmate. 

He looked at the painting next to him. Sienna and honey stared back, his artist’s image in a perfect likeness. Their colors never looked brighter as they stared at each other. He admired her. She admired him. 

Their love, etched into colorful creation for all eternity.