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Come what may, I knew I had poured my passion into every brushstroke. Now I could only hope that what emerged on thosecanvases resonated beyond just me. With the deadline met, I turned my focus back to my work-in-progress, determined to let inspiration guide my hand, not fear. The paint called to me, its alluring swirls were the only curator I answered to.
The discordant notes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons abruptly jarred me from my artistic reverie, the classical composition selected as my ringtone by my mother glaringly out of place in my paint-speckled studio. I didn’t need to glance at the caller ID to know it was her - that pretentious ringtone was like an auditory eye roll, perfectly encapsulating the push and pull between us.
With a resigned sigh, I set down my brush and answered the call. “Hello Mother,” I said, sounding cheerful despite the interruption.
“Avery, dear, I haven’t heard from you in weeks,” came my mother’s refined voice, tinged with gentle admonishment. “You must be so busy with your little paintings. I do hope you’re focusing on the important details. You know, before it’s time to come back.”
I felt a familiar pinch in my chest. “Come back,” the words lingered like an ultimatum, and I pressed the paint-stained phone tighter against my ear.
“Yes,” she continued, pointedly ignoring my silence. “And speaking of transitions, your father and I discussed how the conclusion of your... artistic sabbatical aligns serendipitously with the opening at Bailey’s Law. Philip Bailey mentioned again at dinner last week how thrilled he would be to have you on board.”
I gnawed at my lower lip. The internship, the subtle matchmaking with the Bailey heir, the gentle push to surrender my brushes for briefs was all part of their well-intentioned blueprint for my life.
“It’s a stable opportunity, Avery. Something dependable,” my mother added, her voice laced with hope and an unspoken ‘I told you so.’
My fingers itched to flick paint at an invisible critic as frustration bubbled inside me. The words ‘stable’ and ‘dependable’ were parent-speak for ‘real job’—the antithesis of the ‘little art phase’ I was frantically trying to turn into a sustainable career.
“Mother, it’s been a year of growth for me,” I countered, my voice firm despite the quiver of emotion. “I’m not done here. I’ve submitted a painting to a very important exhibition at The Pebble Point Gallery—it’s the culmination of my work, and my heart. It’s not just a stepping stone back to San Francisco.”
There was a pause that stretched too long, pulling taut like a canvas stressed on its frame. “Avery...” her voice softened, but the maternal script was the same. “We’ve supported your creative endeavor for the past year and are proud of your... dedication. But it’s time to consider your future beyond this... hobby. I’m sure painting in Pebble Point is charming, but it’s not a career.”
I drew in a breath, willing my voice to stay steady. “It’s not a hobby, Mother. It’s who I am. And this exhibition could open doors for me here, doors to a life where I don’t have to choose between passion and paycheck.”
I waited, my heart drumming a frenetic beat as I hoped for a sign of understanding.
She exhaled, the sound crackling across the distance. “Well, we’re considering popping down to see you in a week or two. Father and I are looking forward to seeing your work. And you can tell us all about your future plans over dinner. We’ve missed you, darling.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I admitted, finding truth in the conciliatory words.
We exchanged goodbyes with whispers of unspoken apprehensions hanging like a mist between us. The call ended, and I was alone again with my thoughts, my fears, and a canvas that held more than colors—it held my future. It occurred to me I hadn’t told Mother that I had booked a booth for my paintings at the Independence Day Art Festival. Still, maybe my subconscious had been saving me from another disappointed comment.
Turning back to my easel, I picked up the brush, a silent vow materializing with each stroke. This was it—the final countdown. I’d either paint my way to a new beginning or end up right where I started, trapped in a painting of someone else’s design. The thought spurred me on. I had one month. One chance. No turning back.
Chapter 2
Morning light flooded my studio, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. I stood before my easel, a fresh blank canvas staring back at me, its pristine white surface both taunting and tempting. In my left hand, I clutched a steaming cup of coffee, long grown cold and forgotten. On my right, a paintbrush - my creation wand hovered tentatively over the canvas. Although the gallery submission was out of the way, I had a whole booth to fill with my paintings for the art festival on July 4th.
I took a deep breath, summoning my creative spirits. As light spilled into the studio, this moment was usually when inspiration struck. When the blank potential of the canvas called to me, urging me to splash it with color and meaning.
But today, my mind spun aimlessly, a carousel of scattered thoughts. One moment brimming with ideas, the next lost in a creative void. I longed to let my brush dance across the canvas, to bring forth the vision brewing inside me. But the paintbrush remained frozen, suspended in uncertainty.
I set down the cold coffee and slowly paced the studio, hoping movement would shake loose my artistic block. I paused before each blank canvas, lined up like soldiers awaiting their marching orders. The sight of them was almost mocking - all that empty space longing to be brought to life under my hand.
I thought back to yesterday evening, when inspiration had flowed freely. I’d started sketching concepts in my notebook, jotting down splashes of ideas for new pieces. There was the seaside sunset, all crimson and tangerine melting into the ocean’s sapphire. A mother walking hand-in-hand with her daughter along the shore, their backs to me as they gazed out at the water. Dylan’s truck parked on the street, a study in angles and reflections.
My pencil had danced eagerly over the pages, barely able to keep up with my creativity. But now, standing before the waiting canvas, that inspiration was nowhere to be found. All that came were flickers - a hint of an image that vanished when I tried to grasp it.
I glanced over at the quotes on my studio wall, hoping they would rekindle my motivation. “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” I knew Picasso’s words to be true. I had to put in the work and practice for inspiration to strike. Nevertheless, my hand hesitated, unsure of which direction to guide my brush.
The morning light shifted, spilling across my studio floor, as if to say, “Your time is passing - seize the day!” I took a steadying breath and dipped my brush into a splash of viridian green. Just making this one small choice centered me. I stood before the canvas again and made the first stroke - a confident slash of green.
It was a start. I didn’t know where this brush stroke would lead, or what image would unfold from it. But it was something. As I stepped back, the green line glowed with potential, no longer just a blank canvas but the beginnings of a creation.
I mixed more viridian with touches of sap green and azure. I swept my brush across the canvas in loose, flowing strokes, letting intuition guide me. The colors swirled and blended, gradually forming the outline of rolling waves. I added a stroke of titanium white to form the crest of foam as a wave broke.
With each stroke, the ocean scene steadily emerged as I gave myself over to the process. The studio’s light shifted to a midday glow as I lost myself in the painting. Finally, I stepped back to survey the half-finished seascape. It wasn’t perfect or planned, but it was something. A spark of creativity that had broken through the paralyzing void.
I glanced at my watch, surprised to find hours had slipped by. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I’d forgotten about lunch. I washed my brushes and headed to the kitchen to throw together a sandwich. I gazed out my window at the ocean shimmering in the distance as I ate. I felt re-centered, remembering why I had made the move to Pebble Point, leaving behind my family’s expectations.
