Painting Ember

Chapter 1 - Ember

Anxiety flows through my blood at a rapid pace. Sitting cross-legged on my sunken, worn-down sofa, I attempt to take a sip of tea that I've failed to balance in my right hand and I spill some of the steaming deep-brown contents onto the hardwood floor as my phone sits in my other hand. My whole body hasn't stopped trembling since I received a text from my best friend, Emily.

The message is full of exclamation marks attached to a picture of a leaflet. A pale purple background with black and white splatters accent the page. Tucked towards the upper left side of the leaflet was a rounded text box. My eyes repeatedly skim over the words that I had typed out only last week for my artist statement. They were there, looking back at me; officially, for anyone to see. I'd spent the best part of a month racking my brain, trying to figure out the words. Julie, my main tutor throughout the past few years, told us that raw emotion connects you to the audience.

If they can feel you, they'll believe you, she would say.

Whilst I always thought those words sounded slightly dirty, I could understand the meaning behind them.

My art always comes from a place of passion. From a young age, whenever I was sad, happy, excited or even mentally exhausted, art would let me express those feelings and always made me feel better. It was very rare growing up that I would experience happiness or get excited. But I try not to think back to my childhood. I'd completely forget it if I could bring myself to cut contact from my mother and step-father.

I wasn't abused, even though Emily says I was. She says abuse comes in all different forms, which I suppose is correct. But when I see news stories on people or children that have come from horrible places, I don't compare myself to them. I can't help but think that maybe my childhood wasn't so bad after all. There are probably other kids out there who have grown up fine without affection from their mother, right?

Shit. I guess I am gonna have to look into therapy.

The leaflets were distributed today around the campus and creative arts district in the city. As I run my eyes over the image again, I focus on the picture of me, holding my camera alongside my smiling face. It's slightly tilted away and almost looks like it's slowly sliding off my shoulder.

Although the photo is in black and white, I can make out the different shades of purple in my hair. The brightest parts are where my lavender shines the most. The darker parts that creep in from behind them are more of a lilac shade.

The photo was taken from the department's headshot day at university and they were to be used in our portfolios and marketing module. As my eyes stay fixed on my hair, my mind spins back to that day.

How I'd spent nearly 3 hours curling my hair to perfection, waking up at five a.m to give myself a full makeover. Emily even came by to help choose an outfit. One that still represented me and my personality, but also professional. I'm far from a professional dresser, so the majority of time getting ready was actually spent playing dress-up. Well, Emily dressing up more than me, I guess.

The leaflet advertises my first major photography exhibition. My make or break for when I finish university next month. If it's a success, I will secure my place at one of the top artists warehouses in the city. Producing artwork under the guidance and roof of one of the country's most prominent artists to date and my inspiration since I was a teenager. The money I hope to make from selling my work will fund my place at the warehouse.

My own personal studio. Floor 3, Studio 5. At With Hate Studios.

My hands are still shaking as I attempt to type back a coherent reply. Dryness fills my mouth and I suddenly have the urge to drink hard and heavy, just to shift a small amount of the nerves.