Melanie dreamt of being an artist all her life – and she was, for a time. Her paintings had been on show in bespoke galleries around the town, and she had met a small group of admirers, who often emailed her to purchase some of her canvases, and gushed over how her work made them feel. “Your painting helped me through my father’s passing; I look into the ocean and imagine him on his fishing boat, doing what he loves forever.” Or “I really connected with Diamonds In The Forest. I’ve been feeling lost lately, but when I look into that forest I think to myself that I’m not lost, I’m merely taking the scenic route.”
Life happened, as it does for everyone, and so life touched Melanie’s craft. She was withered by the things that had shaken her soul.
She lost herself through her everyday job; her fire slowly decaying in the corporate basement. Any ounce of energy was snatched by routine, the ticking clock, and commitments. Could I still call myself an artist? She thought. Am I still capable of creating something of value? Would people even care about me now? Feeling forgotten by life, these questions plagued her – a dread not unfamiliar to other artists. Eventually, temporary artist’s block turned into many years where the paintbrush had forgotten Melanie’s touch; so consumed by living, that even painting could not revive the dream that had been lost within her. Painting was the thing of her twenties.
Many years then passed, until one day, she uncovered her old blank canvases which had been collecting dust, and breathed in the musky paints. She was nostalgic for a second, but there was no longer the deep yearning inside of her from her twenties. Had too much time passed? Had the dream floated away in the winds of life? Or was she merely fulfilled by other passions that had come her way since then? Had the season simply ended?
She handed her six-year-old daughter the paintbrush. The little girl giggled as indigo, magenta and emerald smeared across her cheeks. Her daughter’s hands flowed onto the canvas, her fingers plucking at the different colours like apples off a tree. A familiar love erupted from her eyes, a shimmer Melanie had not seen in the girl before, as if a fairy had just been awakened by the swing of the brush.
Melanie smiled. Perhaps gifts are made to be handed down. Maybe she had been a vessel for the dream, a dream that had only begun in her, but had decades more to blossom after her.
- First written in 2023