“It is,” I said, feeling confident again. “You’ll see, when I’m done, I’ll have a masterpiece.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Honestly, Sammy, I wouldn’t doubt that for a second. You have always been able to do anything you put your mind to.”
I smiled at him. “Thanks, Max, that means a lot.”
“Just don’t forget about me when you become a famous artist. I’ll leave you to your laundry,” he said and gave me a quick hug.
A few customers had already walked in to use the washers and dryers. I could see that it wasn’t likely to be a slow day.
“Thanks. And Max, give the slow dancing a chance,” I said as I met his eyes. “Sometimes to get your socks blown off you have to be willing to slow down a little.”
“Ha, ha.” He nodded and walked out of the laundromat.
I watched him go for longer than I should have. That familiar longing rose within me. I squashed it down as I went about my work.
As I got into the swing of the day, I found myself thinking about the people that came in and out of the laundromat. I pictured them as portraits, as moments of pure art in the middle of the mundane. I had a tendency to notice the minute beauty in things—the soft curve of someone’s lips, the way the ridge of an ear angled in a unique way, even the weathered surface of the skin of Old Joe’s fingers. To me each of these things held a beauty that only that particular person possessed. I wondered if that was something that I could ever capture on canvas. I hoped that it might be.
By the time I was closing up shop for the night, I was excited for my first painting class. Maybe I just needed a little guidance, and I would finally be able to create the beauty I witnessed each day.
Chapter 3
When I walked into the classroom the first thing I noticed was how large it was. There were at least fifteen easels set up, with students at all but one, which I assumed was mine. There was a large area at the front of the room where a woman, whom I assumed was the teacher, was pacing slowly back and forth. She had her eyes closed, and her fingers steepled, as if she was saying a prayer. She was dressed in a long flowing white dress. Her long blonde hair had flowers intertwined. I hadn’t seen a grown woman with flowers in her hair since—well, I couldn’t think of when, actually.
I paused in the doorway, wondering if I should go through with it. I could see some of the artwork hung on the walls, and none of it looked like a marshmallow with growths. I felt a nervous knot in the pit of my stomach. I knew it was my familiar feeling of not being good enough. That feeling had stopped me doing so many things in life, from believing I could lose weight to believing that I could pursue any dream I had. I wasn’t going to let it stop me doing this too.
I walked slowly into the classroom despite my fear.
“Hello.” A woman at the easel beside me smiled. She looked friendly enough, with frizzy black hair that hung to her waist, and bright blue eyes. She had the kind of tan that came from working outside, not tanning. She was working on a painting—a landscape—and it was so realistic that I could have mistaken it easily for a photograph.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Samantha. Your painting is beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you.” She laughed, looking slightly embarrassed. “It has a lot of room for improvement. I’m Stephanie.”
I hid my surprise at the idea that there was anything about the painting that could improve. “Have you been taking the class long?” I asked as I sat down behind my easel.
“No, this is only my second night. I just love to paint.”
I felt another wave of queasiness. I wondered if there was some sort of test I should have taken before starting the class to see if I was even capable of being a beginner.
“It’s beautiful,” I said again, feeling a little numb.
“Oh, good, everyone is here,” the teacher said from the front of the room.
She had a soft voice. I had to strain a little to hear each word.
“I want to welcome everyone to this joyous evening,” she said with a happy sigh.
I glanced over at Stephanie, who winked lightly at me.
“She’s a little strange,” she whispered to me. “But she’s a great teacher.”
I nodded and smiled, feeling relieved. At least I wasn’t the only one to find her behavior a little odd.
“So in previous classes we have discussed sight. What is sight?” she asked as she walked back and forth in front of the class. “It’s not just seeing, is it?”
I stared at her with disbelief. Then I looked over at Stephanie. Stephanie seemed to be enthralled by the teacher’s words.
“What do you think, Samantha?” the teacher asked. I assumed she was singling me out because I was a new student. “Do you think that sight is just seeing?”
One of the most difficult things for me to deal with is being put on the spot with a question. My impulsive answers were usually nonsense and had nothing to do with the question. However, this question was so simple, I didn’t hesitate to answer.
“Well, it is seeing,” I said with confidence. “I mean, that is what sight is for.”
“Oh dear.” The teacher laughed. She walked up to me and knocked lightly on the top of my head. I wasn’t sure whether to swat her or duck. “I think we’re going to need to open you up a little bit.” She smiled at me.
Her words were spoken in a kind voice, but I didn’t think that she was being kind at all.
“I don’t understand, I guess.” I felt as if everyone was in on some secret that I was not privy to.
“When we see, it is not about just having sight,” the teacher explained as she walked back toward the front of the classroom. “It’s about knowing what we see. We don’t just look, we seek to understand, to define—don’t we?” she asked.
I nodded a little. I could grasp the concept. I frowned and ducked behind my easel. I was a little annoyed that she had used me as an example of someone’s mind being closed. I wanted more than anything to bring up all of the ways I had been opening myself up lately, but she was already well into her lecture.
“When it comes to painting, we can’t just paint what we see. We must paint what we know, what we have come to understand,” she said. “Today our subject is a bowl of fruit.” She picked up a bowl from her desk. “As you can see, there are bananas, oranges, grapes, plums, nectarines, and a few strawberries.” She set the bowl down on a small card table in the center of the front of the room. “Let’s get started,” she said with a smile and a clap of her hands.
Chapter 4
I stared at the fruit. Now, I had been dieting for over a year. So I had learned to appreciate all kinds of fruits and vegetables. But I had never really thought about painting them. It seemed a little silly to me to do so. They didn’t have character to me, like a person would. Still, everyone else was happily painting them, so I decided to give it a shot.
I started with the bowl. By the time I was done with it, it looked more like a square than a circle. It looked a little lopsided, and there wasn’t any depth to it. The teacher walked past me and paused. She looked at my version of the bowl for a moment and then tore the paper off my easel.
“Try again,” she said. “Don’t just look at the bowl—go inside the bowl, walk around the bowl—be the bowl.” She smiled at me.
The sound of the paper tearing off the easel had drawn the attention of some of my classmates. Stephanie’s bowl looked like a bowl. As the teacher walked away Stephanie leaned over and whispered to me. “She’s all about feeling,” she said. “Just keep trying, you’ll get it. You have to give the bowl shape; it’s not flat in real life—it can’t be flat on your paper either.”
I smiled at her to thank her, but I still wasn’t sure if I understood. I had to give the bowl shape. It wasn’t flat. It was round, and full, and curvy. I narrowed my eyes and tried to create the bowl with depth and character.
When I was done, it still didn’t look like the bowl, but it certainly did look a lot better than my first a
ttempt. I smiled proudly. Stephanie nodded at me. She was already working on the banana.
As I drew the different fruits, I discovered that they were just as unique as the people I saw each day. Different textures, different shapes. It was relaxing to think about. Soon I was drawing without even paying attention to whether I was drawing well or not. I was just drawing the fruit as I experienced it.
“Magnificent,” the teacher said with approval as she walked past me.
I was startled out of the relaxed state I had settled into. I stared at the image on the paper in front of me. The fruit was a little off in size and the apple seemed to be hovering magically above the bowl, but I was surprised that it actually looked like fruit.
“It needs a lot of work,” I said with a laugh.
“Oh, hon, a painting is never about what it needs,” the teacher said gently. “It’s always about what the artist needs.”
I stared at her for a moment. I wasn’t sure if she was nicely insulting me, but her words made sense to me. The painting was my perspective; it was how I saw the world around me, how I expressed it on paper. If I didn’t like what I saw, then it wasn’t the painting I needed to improve, it was my perspective.
I ripped off the paper myself and started over. I no longer thought about shape or size or the position of the fruit. Instead, I thought about the beauty of it. I didn’t draw a circle, I drew an orange. I drew it as I recalled its scent, I drew it as I recalled its taste, I drew it as I recalled its texture beneath my fingertips. It wasn’t about how it looked; it was about communicating what it actually was.
By the time I had finished the painting, I was stunned by what I’d created. Sure, it still wasn’t flawless, but it was better than anything I’d ever expected of myself. For some reason that thought brought tears to my eyes.
“That is really beautiful,” Stephanie said and lightly touched my shoulder. “You are a true artist.” She smiled at me before returning to collecting her things.
I am an artist, I thought. I really believed it. I could create something. It didn’t have to be perfect, it just had to be honest—and part of me. That was what I thought this painting was.
“Lots of potential here, Samantha,” the teacher said as she paused beside me. “I think you’re going to do just fine in this class,” she added. Then she walked to the front of the room.
“Attention, everyone, I have a surprise for all of you. On Thursday night we’re going to try something a little different. We’re going to try living art,” she said with a funny smile. “So don’t be late!”
Chapter 5
When I got back to my apartment that night my mind was still spinning a little. I was amazed at how much I’d learned from a bowl of fruit. But I also felt a little confused. For a long time I had felt as if I had an open mind, but one night at that class had shown me that I was still not seeing clearly.
I sat down with my computer and logged onto my blog. I decided to write about my realization, and how I felt as if my eyes were opening for the first time. I didn’t think I would be seeing any of this if it weren’t for the bucket list I’d been steadily checking off.
I had a few new comments from random readers of the blog, which I appreciated. But there was one comment in particular that I was waiting for. When it appeared I felt an instant excitement. Blue was the first person to comment on my blog when I’d put it up. I had no idea who Blue was—male, female, young or old. But I felt a connection to Blue, strong enough that sometimes it seemed as if the blogs I wrote were specifically written to this person.
What a journey you’re on, SWF. I wish I was there to share it with you. I’m sure the moment that you actually got to “know” the fruit was exhilarating for you. I’m going to make myself a bowl of fruit and spend a little time staring at it. Maybe I will learn to open my eyes as well.
I smiled as I read the words. It meant so much to me that not only did someone find my blog interesting, but this particular commenter appeared to be joining me on my journey, as if every new discovery I made was something that this person could share in also. It felt as if I was inspiring someone, and having no idea who this person was made it even more thrilling. I decided to comment back.
Don’t forget the strawberries, Blue. They are big conversationalists.
I smiled and closed my computer.
Maybe I wasn’t the best artist, but that was never my goal. I wanted to try new things, because I wanted to get to know who I was. For many years I had defined myself by my job, by how I looked, by who my family was. I hadn’t taken the time to actually know who I was. Now I had that opportunity and I was going to take it.
The next morning when I woke up for my shift at the Fluff and Stuff I felt a sense of determination. I was going to see differently today. I was going to “know” the things I was looking at.
As I walked into the shop I felt a new sense of life within me. I smelled the laundry detergent with new perspective. I touched the clothes I was folding with new appreciation. When Old Joe walked in, I looked at him with new sight. He wasn’t the crotchety old man that I usually saw him as. He had dimension, he had experience, he had stories written in the wrinkles of his skin.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped. “Are my socks clean or what?”
I blinked and reached for his basket of laundry waiting to be picked up.
“Here they are,” I said smiling. “White as can be.”
“Sure they are,” he grumbled and handed me his payment.
He made his way out of the shop. As the door swung shut behind him I stuck out my tongue. He might have dimension, but he was still grumpy. I didn’t let his attitude ruffle my feathers. I was determined to have a good day.
I was hoping to see Max and talk about the class the night before, but he didn’t stop by as I’d expected him to. Instead the shop got busy, and by the time I was ready to close up, I realized Max wasn’t coming at all. It was unusual for me not to see him at least once a day.
I shook off the feeling of abandonment and focused on going through the motions of closing up. I wanted to get home and practice painting a banana.
As I was locking the door of the shop, I bumped into Stephanie, who was walking along the sidewalk.
“I’m glad I caught you!” she said with a big grin on her face.
I had given her a business card in case she wanted to have some laundry done.
“I can open back up,” I said.
“Oh no, I was hoping you’d come out for a drink with me,” Stephanie said, then frowned slightly. “I know that’s a little odd—we don’t know each other well—but, I’ve moved here recently and I don’t have many friends in the area. So I thought maybe—” She sighed and shook her head. “This was probably a bad idea.”
“It’s not a bad idea at all,” I said with a big smile.
I’d never had many female friends. I was friendly with my neighbor, who had helped me set up my blog, but when it came to actually hanging out and girl talk, I did most of that with Max. I thought this might be fun. “In fact there’s a bar right around the corner we could go to if you would like,” I said.
“Sounds great.” Stephanie nodded. As we walked we chatted about the class the night before.
“I can’t believe the teacher,” I said. “She seems a little out there.”
“Yes, she is.” Stephanie nodded. “But she certainly can paint. I can’t believe how quickly you caught on.”
“She was right about seeing things in a different way,” I went on as we entered the bar. “I never really thought of myself as being closed off, but today I’m seeing things with my eyes wide open.”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Stephanie asked.
As we shared a drink and spoke about our experiences in the class I felt a strong connection with Stephanie. She seemed like someone I could definitely get along with.
“Drinking without me?” Max said accusingly as he settled onto a bar stool beside me.
“Max,
hi!” I said, happy to see him. “This is my friend Stephanie.”
He quirked a brow, probably shocked that I had a friend, or shocked that I knew someone that he didn’t—I wasn’t sure which.
“Nice to meet you, Stephanie,” he said with his flirty smile.
I narrowed my eyes. He ignored me.
“You too, Max,” she said. “Samantha and I were just discussing our painting class.”
“Ah, the painting class.” Max nodded. “I think it’s great that Sammy is getting involved in something so creative.”
“She’s very talented,” Stephanie said and smiled at me.
I looked from one to the other and could already see the sparks flying.
Chapter 6
As the conversation continued I stopped participating, because Max and Stephanie were talking about how much they had in common. It felt like I was just getting in the way.
“Excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom,” I said as I stood up.
“Oh, I’ll come with you.” Stephanie jumped up and followed after me.
As we were washing our hands Stephanie looked at me in the mirror. “So what’s the story with you and Max?” she asked. “Are you together?”
I turned to look at her. I knew why she was asking. She was clearly interested in Max, and to my surprise Max appeared to be genuinely interested in her. I wanted to lay claim to him, but I remembered my promise to myself. Max had gotten fourteen years, now it was time to move on.
“We’ve been best friends for years,” I explained with a slow smile. “That’s all we are—friends.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if we—”
“Not at all.” I forced my smile to grow wider. I hoped she couldn’t tell that I was biting my cheek hard.
“Great!” she said with a sigh of relief. “He seems like a really great guy, but I didn’t want to step on any toes.”
“He is a really great guy,” I said. “But he can be a bit of a player, so be careful,” I added.
“Thanks for the warning.” She laughed a little.
I didn’t think she believed me. As we walked back to the bar Max stood up to greet us.
Single Wide Female: The Bucket List Mega Bundle - 24 Books (Books #1-24) Page 11