Memories fade, but certain emotions refuse to ever be drained out of the consciousness.
There was one art assignment that we had in primary school. I cannot remember which year was it. I cannot remember which class I was in. I cannot remember who the teacher was. But I do remember that the homework was to paint sunflowers on a piece of drawing block.
I was never the student who will complete all the homework way before the submission date. More often than not, I would let time slip by to the day before submission; only on that day will I complete my work. That doesn't mean that I would hand in a sketchy piece of work. I had too much pride to do a perfunctory job, but little diligence to start early. This art assignment was no exception.
The materials needed were quickly gathered: Old newspapers to line the table, a piece of drawing block, random brushes that we have in the house, two empty Yakult bottles half-filled with water to rinse the brushes, and poster colour. I drew the outline of the flowers using a pencil, and I painted, starting with the orangey-brown centre of my cartoon-like sunflower. Then I moved on to the petals, a bright sunny yellow stretching out from the center. And then I wanted to paint stems. That was when I realised that there was no hint of green paint left at all. To my horror, blue was also gone; I could not even mix blue and yellow for green, and there goes my blue sky for the backdrop as well. As a child, I was thoroughly in panic with the thought that I would be unable to complete the painting. The provision shop, five minutes away from my house, sold tubes of poster colours. However, I had zero cash savings as the daily allowance of 50 cents was only enough for recess. Mum was the only hope; the only hope that I could have some financial aid to procure blue and green.
What I eventually got was not blue and green, but an earful of how I should have started earlier, and no, I was not to be given any money to buy any paint. It is almost hilarious to think of how terrified I was, but at that point of time my fear was very real and the tears fell embarrassingly swiftly. My mother’s angry advice to her tardy daughter was to use orange or red to paint the stems and leaves. I could barely believe what I heard; how can the leaves be red! Art is definitely not my mum’s strong suit. I cried furiously, but as silently as I could, all the while thinking that her suggestion was wholly absurd.
In the end I was defeated. Yellow flowers, brown stems and red leaves. An orange sky. I cried so hard through the whole painting process that it felt like violent hiccups.
It was the next morning in school and I had my fiery flowers in my art folio, with pins and needles pricking my scalp. I was anticipating a scolding. We handed in our work, and I saw yellow blooms against a crisp blue sky, green leaves sprouting from the stems of the blooms. I look at mine. Scarlet maple leaves have found their way to sunflower stalks. I swallowed a tiny sigh, bit on my lip and handed it in with my eyes glued to the floor. I scuttled away quickly.
We received our graded paintings after one week. My hands and feet were starting to turn cold with dread as my teacher returned the paintings to their creators. She came nearer.
She called my name. She told me that I did a great job. She asked me if I knew about the colour wheel, the warm colours, and the cool colours. She affirmed me and told me that I was creative and I could consider doing another piece with the cool colours like purple, blue and green. My eyes must have opened wildly as I attempted to fathom what I had just heard. My material disadvantage became an artistic advantage in a way that I had never imagined. To this day I remember that awe, and the letter ‘A’ written in red on the back of my painting.
And now, many years later, I paint another piece with leaping warm colours. Not because I cannot afford blue paint, but to remind myself that flaws bloom in unpredictable ways.
原来缺憾也是美。
是意料之外的美。
缺憾，竟可化为一种满溢。
15/05/2013, Singapore.
No comments:
Post a Comment