Painted and Unpainted Pieces of my Heart
In today’s world we see and put anything and everything in an entirely different lens. Though I’m a major in psychology, #idontlikeusingthephraseimapsychologist, I found my interests quite later in life. Frankly speaking, at the age of 29. So my primary interest is in painting Not like landscape and figures, but playing around with colors, what’s popularly known as abstract expressionism. And the second interest was in writing. Not like a blogger writer but an expressionist.
I started painting without training. And in this part of the chapter, you will see a blue, yellow and purple painting put together. Although they are three different paintings on three different canvases, it’s a single painting for me. My paintings tell a story that is deeply embedded in me and screams to come out.
I usually paint in triplets. Since they are abstract, I might give it a title, or dedicate a phrase to it, but I don’t quite talk about what’s in the painting, because it is in the eyes of the viewer that, when a painting is completed. Hence, all my paintings may look complete but are only incomplete for me.
In an unfortunate incident in my house, where I was explicitly told that I will go mad if I keep painting; something that had kept me sane in my times of pain and visiting doctors every other day for either dental treatment or jaw alignment due to my accident when I broke my jaw, I was devastated. In my mind, I thought if my family can not accept my expression, then who will? But was I painting for acceptance?. In my aggression, I packed everything related to colors and painting and placed it on top of my store room. But that wasn’t enough. So the next day I decided, to tear them apart. In my view I thought if this is going to keep my family happy, and think that I am not going insane then I’ll do it.
This writing is not about an incident or aggression. But the fact that someone very subtle like me could go to an extent where I, myself, destroyed what I had created with such love, care and emotion involved.
This writing is about regret. About impulsive decisions. About the fact that impulse is not as temporary as we think. It could last for more than what we think.
This writing is about regret. A word we use often, an emotion we experience often, because of our own doings.
Regret. Rashly tearing apart my paintings. Now, when I look at them, I do not have the courage to see them in that form. How could I have wronged myself? Those paintings were a part of me. A part of my existence that I poured out. How could I destroy my own self?
Questions. Questions. Questions are what all I am left with.
What was I thinking? I could see my brother and mother crying in sorrow and it did not affect me as I ate my dinner. What had gotten into me? Such a fierce reaction for something too small?
I regret. For the first time in my life I can say that I regret that I spoiled my paintings. For the first time I can say I regret something. But I am also ashamed in front of myself. Because I owned them. How can I disown them?
We all have our ways of rationalising things. So did I. That I will make better and new paintings. But, I can never make or have the same paintings ever again.
It is true when they say we must not indulge in an act that we regret later. I did. And my heart aches. Therefore, I should paint more.
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