Her White Spaces

A Story by Thalassa

A nonfiction piece about an artist's heart.

In every stroke of the brush tip immersed in the scanty amount of watercolor, she smiled with those sparkly teeth of hers. With every gentle dab of the brush on the off-white wooden palette that she received from her mother, the canvas enveloped with hues, eventually closing in on the white areas.

As strands of hair frolicked back and forth from the sides of her face with eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Kea paused for a moment and distanced herself from the canvas. Wrapping herself in the woven blanket and focusing on the halfway-filled canvas, she reminisced the first moments she came in contact with art materials; crayons.

She was 4 years old at that time, and while she was looking for an object she could get her hands on, her grandmother gave her crayons. Mesmerized with logs made out of wax but seemingly withheld colors in them, she approached the wall of their living room and started pushing down on the crayon, directing it from right to left. Her eyes glinted with curiosity as her crayon started drifting even farther from where she first pointed it on. As the rough surface of the wall came in contact with the crayon, she never felt that degree of contentment of being gifted with tiny logs that somehow ended up unconsciously coloring her world as well.

Holding the cup of coffee in her hand, Kea gave it a subtle swirl, letting the aroma suspend in the air of her room. She closed her eyes as she embraced the heat exuding from her mug, which was also one of her painting creations. As she opened them once again, her eyes scanned the canvas once more, then landed at the sight of clay figurines positioned on her nightstand, through which she remembered her mother.

Even when she was still little, every Sunday was not only a religious obligation but also the day of getting together with family friends; a relational obligation concerning the growth of familial connection. Whenever she would walk with her mother to church and meet their family friends, she would be greeted with "Nagmana ka talaga sa nanay mo. Parehas kayong magaling sa Art." When they had said this, her mother would always smile at her. She was already satisfied knowing that she really was artistic and that she had a fiery passion for creating art; but to add the acknowledgment of people upon their approval and praise for her passion, she was even more satisfied and fulfilled beyond what one can feel. It was for this reason that her mother became her inspiration for creating art and pursuing it.

Snapping back from her memories, Kea looked down at her cup. Noticing that only a sip was enough before it was finished, she took the last sip and sighed in relief. At this, she put her cup down on the nightstand and instinctively knew that she had to get her nightly dose of coffee. She grabbed her scarf that hung on the wooden peg at the back of her door, house keys, and wallet. It would be chilly out, so she had to keep herself warm from the possibility of freezing, even if she wanted to believe that the cold never bothered her.

Being a selenophile that she was, not only did the moon intrigue her but also the night sky as well. Feeling the night breeze kiss her cheek and the leaves sway in motion, she skipped with each step on the pavement towards the cafe. From her fascination of the sky, blue became her favorite color. Whether sky blue, cobalt blue, cerulean, or the kind of blue that disappears when the sun sets, she had always been fond of the color. There was something calming about blue that eased her in place whenever her eyes glazed over it. It was probably why the canvas she worked on as of the moment was predominantly blue.

The bells chimed when she entered the cafe. The familiar aroma of coffee beans and sweets flourished throughout the place. It was pervaded with indistinct chats of people with laptops propped on coffee tables, the sound of creaks when wooden chairs are pulled to the side, the shifting steps of service crew behind the counter, and the gleaming white cups and small plates. She cautiously approached the counter, making sure not to bump into anyone, and ordered her mocha frappuccino. As soon as she got hold of her order, she bid her gratitude and left to go back to her house.

Scrolling through her social media, she read some stories about kids like her wanting to become artists but are discriminated against because the opportunities that art provides are underestimated and supposedly do not suffice as payment for rent and bills. The thought circling in her head was, “Artists give all their time and effort in one piece of artwork, and sadly, not everyone sees it.” She sighed in sadness as she looked at the works of various people posted on twitter, thinking that foreign ones are effortlessly recognized. Not only was there bias for foreign artworks but also the principle of some Filipinos that asserted commissions as unnecessary.

Kea put her phone down and began painting once again. She didn’t pressure herself to finish painting the canvas because she believed that for something to be called art, it had to be made out of love. "Everything that is seen and made is art", she thought to herself. As it was 2 AM, she decided to finish her artwork in the next few days to come.

As she is currently a Grade 12 student, 10 years is still a myriad's worth of waiting and growing. She still had plenty of time in her hands to complete the painting before having a stable job and even having her own family. For she was a painter whose goal is to conquer herself, but in order for her to do that, she had to conquer the white spaces evident in her life first.