Art. - by Zibah Black

The brush slipped from my fingers and landed softly on the floor. I stared at it for a second. Then I bent down, picked it up, and turned it between my fingers, inspecting the bristles. A little paint had dried around the edges. I wiped it gently against a piece of cloth beside me. Then I dipped it into the black paint.Just a little.I didn't need much. I brought the brush back to the canvas and began stroking again. Slowly.Deliberately.One stroke.Then another. The painting was coming to life.I leaned closer. The room was quiet except for the soft acoustic music playing somewhere behind me.I loved painting with music. There was something about the combination.The brush.The canvas.The music. The silence between each note. Perfect. I hummed softly along with the song, barely loud enough to hear myself. My eyes closed for a moment. Just for a moment. I wanted to enjoy the tune. When I opened them again, I reached for the palette resting on the table.I dipped the brush into the brown. Then mixed it slowly with the black. Once.Twice.Again. I watched the colours merge.Too dark.I added a little more brown.Mixed again. Perfect. The exact shade I wanted.I turned back to the canvas and began layering the colour along the side.The strokes were gentle at first.Then firmer. I filled the empty space gradually, watching the shape emerge beneath my hand.It was strange how a blank canvas could hold so much possibility. Nothing.And then suddenly...Something. I paused.Tilted my head slightly.Not quite right.I added another layer. Better.Much better. The music changed.I smiled. Then my hand moved toward the red.I dipped the brush into it.The colour clung to the bristles. Bright.Deep.Almost too perfect. I dragged the brush across the canvas.One sharp stroke.Then I stopped.I stared at it. The red stood out against the darker colours. I looked down at my hand. The bandage was beginning to loosen. A thin line of blood had seeped through.I reached for the brush again. A little more.Another stroke.Then another. I watched the red spread across the canvas, blending beautifully into the darker shades.It was exactly what I wanted. I took a little more from the wound.Then returned to the canvas.The painting seemed to breathe beneath my hands. It was no longer just paint on canvas.It had become something else. Something alive.I lost track of time.Minutes passed.Or longer. The music continued playing.The brush moved.Black.Brown.Red.Back to brown.Then red again. I kept painting until every part of the canvas felt deliberate.Until there was nothing left that needed correcting. Finally, I placed the brush down.I stepped back. Took another step. I wanted to see the whole thing. My head tilted slightly to the left.Then to the right. I smiled. “Perfecto.” The red was perfect.Exactly the shade I had imagined. I looked at the painting for a little longer. Art is the life gifted to humans...And privileged to a few. I glanced down at my hand. Only then did I notice the blood seeping through the edge of the bandage. I sighed. I reached for the fresh bandage beside the paints and carefully wrapped it around the open injury, tightening it just enough. Then I picked up the glass of wine from the table. I took a slow sip.My eyes never left the painting.I smiled again. Perfect.

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