I don't why, I don't know what went wrong, but I really am a loser when it comes to visual arts. Maybe because I'm colorblind, or maybe I just really can't. Haha But this time, I'm gonna try my luck. This time I'll be talking about, weird enough, paintings.
I was reading a Yahoo! article about the great Mona Lisa, and I remembered how it's been one of, if not the, most controversial paintings ever. The smile (which they're not even sure if it really is), the missing eyebrows, the eyes, and all that. Even the emotion, and the purpose of the painting itself. All that running in my mind, my imagination started to play around with me and started visualizing how the painting might have been done -- from the canvas fabric, then outline, then the paint and the colors until it gets the image seen. And then, with the progression and the complexity of doing such, I came to realize that for the past how many years that I've been breathing, I actually have been painting my own portrait.
I started out with a plain cloth, and a brush which I wasn't sure how to use. With my small, uncontrollable hands, I started out striking the cloth with the brush, but no color appeared to be there yet. I didn't know that I had to dip the brush first, then do what I have been doing. But even before I did, a gentle hand held mine with a pencil, and started to draw an image which I couldn't really understand because it was done in very fine lines. Years went by, and my hand with the brush, still being guided, then started dipping it in the colors on the board, choosing light colors -- white, light brown. I felt happy and satisfied with what I was seeing. For my young eyes it appeared to be totally pleasant. I realized that I was being guided to draw the first half of my face. More years went on, I felt that my guide's been using light colors. Though I still found it pleasant, I started to think of trying to do it my way that time. Years passed by, and I felt that my hands were strong enough to resist the guidance of that gentle hand. I struggled hard, and finally, I was able to choose my own hue. I took a darker color and tried it, but it didn't appear right. I tried dipping it on the lighter color but it got mixed up with the darker one, and so it started to change the image that I was trying to create. It was then showing a chaotic, dirty cloth. It turned dark, and messy. I tried and tried and tried doing all that I thought will make it better, but no. It only became worse. More years came and it was pure struggle of finding the right color, the right combination. That's when my hand got too tired, too exhausted that it couldn't move the brush anymore. Surprisingly, it started to move again, but it wasn't my effort anymore. Little did I know that the guiding hand was and still is, all the while, on top of my hand waiting for mine to give up for it to guide again. And so, it started moving again, and to my delight, all the darker colors have become the shadows enhancing the image itself, and again, adding lighter colors a clearer picture was made. Another year came, and half of the my face was done, the other half still on process, and at first I found it weird. My left face is all good, but as the guiding hand holds my hand and does the work, I see it painting the right head with like, a crown; though it appears to be a dark crown, not gold nor silver. I see that it has sharp edges too. And I also see red droplets dripping down from it, and the face looks bruised and wounded.
As I look at this almost-done image of mine, I learn more who I really am, how I look like, and how and who I should be. I'm just glad that, first, Someone already did the draft for me. Second, there's been a hand so gentle and artistic to hold my hand and even correct the mistakes that I've done without condemnation. And lastly, that Someone shares his face with mine and makes the portrait a picture of me in and with Him.
