Most of my art pieces were an aftermath of my anxiety ridden days. The paint drips and the coffee sips. These are all it takes for one to be an artist. I thought. Yet, I see so many other people have carved images so heavenly, and turned pieces of paper into sketches worth millions. Those people had a purpose. A purpose lot more than a sunny day with bird chirps. Something superior than the bitter coffee and sugary cake.
While those people already had their muse, I struggled to find mine.
But whenever I got to pause this man-made construct of time, I flew away to the basement of my house where I would remain unbothered for days. For me the basement was the most treasured part in the house. Oh! Not the spider webs that sparkled when a gleam of ray passed through the rusty ventilator. Definitely not the cracked easel that had a hint of glitter I sneezed and blew over.
Alas, the acrylics on the palette had gotten harder over time just because how lazy I was. Yet, I loved to be amidst the fragrance of the freshly opened paint containers. Dancing along to John Mayer holding my brushes as my counterparts, and the music reverberating through the wooden walls would make it my acoustic dream. Except, the basement was also a part garage where all my inventions were showcased right above the metal rack. All these formed an aesthetic environment for creating a masterpiece, my masterpiece.
There are some things in life that needs to be done to stay alive. But art, for me, merely sustained it. While I was studying those bulky physics books at
3 am, I needed to doodle on the pages, or draw cartoons on the edges. The entropy of the world was ever increasing but the chaos within me lowered this way. I witnessed shades of black that would put every color to shame. The stains of coffee on the American cartridge. The charcoal dust that refuse to leave my fingers. The matt black nail polish that brings out the devil in me. It absorbed the colors yet let me reflect my true self. Meanwhile, I turned the hollow canvas to the vessel of my soul. The texture of the cartridge covering the wood mesmerizes me into reflection.
People often mistake a muse to be a prop of an artistic person. But this muse for me proved to be a ray of hope, not just to fill up a canvas but to fill up my life with something worthwhile. Things started changing as if the drops of paint carried a sudden consciousness. I realized shortly that my muse was always there. All in front of me and all over me. In the same cup of coffee that burnt my tongue. Or the sugary cake that melted as soon as it entered my mouth. I figured my muse and the best part was it was the eternal kind. Not like the sweet teen romance and definitely not like the smoke rings we blew. However, for a split second I found myself enjoying without expecting a fine result. Evidently, this is how stuff are to be done. Not for the likes of Instagram or the views of Snapchat. When you place your motivation on the wrong place, it is likely to get stale. The key thus is to go to places that rejuvenate you, listen to stories that inspire you and do things that challenge you. Once you start gaining a sense of wonder in the smallest of things, you start to find your muse in the weirdest of places, I promise.
Pant is an IBDP graduate.
