During the lulls of chemistry class, as the silk-fine breeze of autumn whisks in through open windows, I doodle on the borders of my notes. Jeweled raindrops that glistened dully from the sheen of graphite lead, inked hyacinth flowers with tight curlicues that flourish outwards, an ornate necklace of molten silver. The necklace drips down the clavicle of a snoozing mermaid. Mechanical pencil in hand, I try to fill in the details - by arcing the lead tip outwards and reining it back in, I form the mermaid’s loose, wispy curls and high forehead. The song from last night - you don’t know until you do, darling - circles my head, and I find myself carefully delineating the lyrics in slanted calligraphic font. Before the clang of the school bell breaks me from my reverie, the mermaid splashed her holographic tail - once, twice - and disappeared in a spray of icy rhinestones. I blink, and the spell is broken.
For me, creating art has always been a cathartic experience.
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They are rough and smeary, but I get a wonderful semblance of movement. With care, I mark out geometric proportions before fleshing out the details - a prima ballerina suspended in arabesque position, sleeves of watery silk draping down her elbows, swan neck curved towards the bone-shard moon. My hand tilts just so and I smudge hard at an angle, until ashy shadows seep through the paper. The interplay of light and dark renders her incandescent.
Watercolors blend beautifully and softly, a continuum of hues spread smooth. My movements are sedate and peaceful, as if I was meandering through stagnant backwater. I paint atmospheric candlelight scenes, dabbing washed yellow hues to create evocative fairy glows. The shadows are kept hazy and indistinct, blurred into the background - a study in sfumato. My starry horizons are indigo blue, deepening to sensual purple at the edges. Tiny diamond stars dot the nightscape in swirls, vanishing over the silhouettes of