Artistic License

Part IV: Colour

When the bell rang, my muse was loathe to quit. Mrs. Clairoux was positively beaming, and exclamations of French rang in the air.

"Oh, ma petit bichette! You have made so much progress that I think that next Friday you can be in the auction! I kid, oui, but I am proud of you, ma minette. You work very hard, as you used to."

My smile was not forced this time.

As I gathered my belongings and left the art room grudgingly, a long-missed light sparkled in my eyes. Perhaps I would not gain the use of my right hand back, but perhaps I would; I resolved to keep the dark thoughts from my mind as much as possible. For now, I would train my left, for the sake of art and for myself. Bathed in a little inner serenity, the walk out to the parking lot seemed slightly less monotonous than before.

Arianna greeted me affectionately when I knocked on the door of her parked blue rental Buick (the Mini was out for repairs after becoming acquainted with a mailbox). To say I had a spring in my step would be an exaggeration, but she could read the light in my eyes. As we drove home, I even proffered some conversation about my art class and progress. I promised to show her the sketch when we reached home.

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The next few days began and ended swiftly, and with a few strokes of my pencil, a grin or two, and another few smatterings of French endearments, the next Friday swept down upon me. It was a teacher workday in preparation for third quarter progress reports. For Fine Arts students, it was also the night of the long-awaited semester art auction.

Around four in the afternoon, I attended my first physical therapy appointment, where I was given an evaluation and a list of strengthening exercises to do at home. Wasting no time, Arianna and I sped home to prepare for the auction. Having no piece to sell, I had volunteered to be an usher.

Arianna was kind enough to curl my hair, spinning the long locks into hot rollers dipped in a poison cloud of hairspray. She assisted me in the daunting task of one-handed makeup, and even found a silver shawl for me to drape over my bright white cast. Sporting a sleek navy cocktail dress that matched my sombre yet glittering eyes, I pinned star shards in my ears and watched them sparkle with satisfaction.

The self I saw in the mirror did not disappoint me. She was nowhere close to whole, but she was no longer broken. The colour grey was an accent, not the theme of her being. It would be a long time still until that reflection glowed with the light of the sun once more, but I had patience. When the time came to leave for the auction, I slid on my glass slippers and prepared to enjoy the ball.

Attendance was plentiful as always, and my time was spent hurriedly yet gracefully handing out catalogs and explaining auction procedures to guests. An elderly couple known for their constant patronage remarked upon my newfound elegance, and I thanked them shyly.

Perhaps I was not a graceful dancer or a beautiful model, but my love of art had inspired me to work twice as hard tonight. When the room had filled and the doors had closed, I took my seat in the front and admired Mrs. Clairoux's speech.

"...Such is the nature of art, that it allows us to express what words cannot describe, and that it brings feelings to life through colours and shapes that would normally have no meaning. The pieces we have today are the feelings and souls of all of the students in our Fine Arts department, and your generous purchases help keep this dream of artistic freedom alive."

A tear broke through my guard as she bowed to the crowd before allowing the student auctioneer to take the podium. I listened, dreamlike, as each work of art by the Art III and IV students was displayed and sold. When the intermission came and the silent auction for the rest of the items began, I wandered over to the donation table.