Chapter 241:
Healing by Art
Point of View Max :
The colours buzzed and turned with the chatter of brushes rattling in tins and relaxed whispers that echoed around the small art studio. I just stared at the easel in front of me; Megan ambled around the space, her eyes tracking every irregularity lodged in the rebellious, bright, bold colours of the artworks covering each surrounding wall. The studio was now her sanctuary from the turmoil that pursued her like a shadow.
Megan turned my roller coaster world, spinning madly out of control, into a place of unexpected serenity. I’d been working at a feverish pace, trying to seize some part of her that could not be expressed in words, each stroke of the brush a manner in which to channel the multiple package of emotions pouring furiously out of her-ly difficult to handle.
“Megan,” I called across the hum of the studio, “I’m glad you came back. I think we need to talk.”
She looked up from a broad, dark stroke of lines in the canvas painting, and our eyes met. “Yeah? About what?”
“About everything,” I said, putting down my brush. “What you’re feeling and why you’ve been coming here so often.”
She hesitated a little, then walked toward where I had stood. “I guess, all of my life, I’ve been looking for something. I don’t know, it’s like some kind of escape, maybe.”
I nodded. “But that is the reality of art. Not creating beautiful stuff just because it is, but it says what you can’t say in words.
Megan smiled. “I never expected that here… I mean, I came to this studio to have a good time, and it has turned out to be something else. Like, it helps me make sense of things.”.
Rather, I motioned at the painting I’d been working on-an artwork that finally begun taking its shape over the last few days. “This is for you. It’s not complete, but it’s what I came up with, capturing all that you are in one. Your strength, your vulnerability.”
Megan took a step closer and examined the painting, huge curiosity and apprehension written large across her face. “It’s quite intense actually. I wouldn’t have expected you to really depict me like this.”.
“That’s the point,” I said. “It’s more than just a likeness. It is to know what lies behind the facade.”
She ran her fingers across the side of the canvas, pondering it. “It’s as though you have painted everything that I tried not to let show.”
“Probably that’s the point of art,” I mused. “To reveal the things we can’t always express.”
At that, the door creaked open, and Miles stepped into the studio. His eyes flicked from Megan to me, unease living very palpably in his stance.
“Miles,” I said, trying to be suave. “Glad you could make it.”
Megan stiffened at her gaze on him. “But what is he doing here?”
“I invited him,” I told her. “I thought maybe it would do us some good to all talk.”
Miles attempted shuffling; his eyes dropping to the floor. “Hi, Megan. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Megan crossed her arms over her chest; her demeanor walled off. “What do you want, Miles?”
“I just… I wanted to explain,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “I know I messed up, because I should have been there for you, and I allowed my own fears to get in the way.”
Megan’s eyes narrowed. “You just vanished, without a word. So why should I believe anything you say now?”
“I know it’s hard to trust me,” Miles admitted. “But I’m here now, and I’m trying to make things right.
I pleaded with my eyes to Megan, to give room for Miles to speak. “This could be our chance to have a shot at fixing it. Art has a way of pulling out emotions and truths that we may never deal with otherwise.”
Megan released a loud sigh as she dropped her shoulders a little. “Fine. Say what you have to say.”
Miles inhaled deeply as his gaze locked on Megan’s, eyes deep as he tried to pour into her his honesty, a totally honest expression. I went a little haywire on you. I kept thinking that maybe I can do something about it, but I am wrong. I’m sorry for leaving you alone.
Megan softened her gaze a little, but her distrust was still there. “What makes you feel that you can fix things now?
Miles swallowed hard, “I want to prove that I’ve changed. I’ve really worked on my head lately, trying to realize why I did what I did. I know saying sorry doesn’t really cut it, but I really am willing to do whatever it takes in order to have you believe in me again.”
She scanned the table, each one of us, seeming in search for some kind of agreeing sign from me. I nodded, ever slightly, trying to say that I was behind Miles in his attempt towards reunification.
“Alright. I’ll give you a chance,” Megan finally acceded. “But it’s going to take time.”
Miles nodded his head in gratitude. “Thank you, and I won’t let you down.”
I sat there, watching, in between hope and fear. The art studio was a space for nude emotions and naked truth, and, supposedly, it was not going to be any different this time either.
By the end of the first half of the conversation, Megan seemed to be loosening up. It was as if I could see her posture changing from defensive to slightly open. Those walls seemed to be just crumbling down a bit.
“So, what’s the plan here?” Megan said, slight lean in the voice.
“I thought maybe we could use this space just to talk things through,” I tried. “Maybe do a bit of art to get out how we’re feeling.”
Megan raised an eyebrow. “You mean like, paint our emotions?”
“Art is a very powerful healing tool,” I smiled. “Sometimes it helps when we put our feelings onto canvas to understand them a bit better.”
Miles looked around the studio and some of the works. “I don’t know jack squat about art, but I’m game.”
Megan chuckled softly. “I never thought I’d do something like this. Maybe I need it.”
I handed Megan a back brush and an empty canvas. I said, “Start with whatever comes to mind. There’s no right or wrong way to do this.
Megan dipped the brush in the paint and then paused for a second before making her first stroke. One could look into her eyes to see the concentration, and I knew it meant far much more than an exercise in creativity; it was a way of dealing with and giving expression to the feelings she had been struggling to cope with.
Miles retrieved a brush from the box, dipped it into the paint, and began making an assault on the canvas. The first few strokes were a bit timid, but finally, he got into it and was vigorous in his movement. The sound of the bristle on canvas captured the other sound in its rhythmic cadence surrounding us.
Minutes turned into hours, and the room’s tension leveled off. Megan began to feel a sense of purpose in the trine where her first hestitation had been, and the apologies of maybe the colors or textures of Miles’ artwork.
“I wouldn’t have realized I needed this if I didn’t come here. Thanks for this,” she finally murmured, her voice much softer than before.
“Bad timing,” I had said. That had filled me with a lot of satisfaction. “Art has a way of bringing clarity and healing.”
Miles looked at Megan; his expression was hopeful.
Megan looked back at him reflectively. “It’s a start. Let’s see where it goes from here.”