An Artist in Savannah

July 2, 2012
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She was walking around Savannah, waiting for inspiration. As she sat down on the old stained bench on the outside of the square, she realized not a sense of art was inside her mind, much less her heart today. She proceeded to the nearest coffee shop to which she was a daily customer- usually in the morning and late evening. She ordered her regular chocolate mocha and took the farthest seat in the checkered booth next to the window. She had a perfect view of the tourists walking back and forth along the cobble stone streets shopping and touring the historic town. The sunset was at its peak, giving her the perfect light to see each unique face- with her particularly bad eye site, this was a small delight to her afternoon. After a lengthy amount of time looking among different lives, she turned her head to admire the framed art work in front of her. She then foremost initiated her inspiration.
In her large, shoulder strapped turquoise bag the bases of her everyday life rolled about together. Each step she took was parallel with the clinking sound of different metals, plastics, and fabrics colliding. She had her sketching pencils, which were now at their peak but still displaying bite marks, in her plaid carrying pouch engraved with a bright eyed owl. There was a stain on the pouch from her collection of multi colored nail polish which had leaked inside her purse last week on the train. Next to her photographs torn and faded, a large striped umbrella laid inside for shady days while sitting in one of the many parks or taking slow walks while it drizzled. Then by itself in a separate pocket was her nokia cell phone with only four numbers programmed inside: her mother’s, her best friend’s, her art teacher’s, and her school’s emergency line.
The daily wardrobe with which she chose to wear was a strange excitement for each rising morning. On casual days she was seen in leggings- navy blue, purple, red, orange, or black. Oversized t-shirts with graphic designs on them paired with a simple sweater would cover up her small figure which some have said to be unhealthy. Boots or flats were the most comfortable walking shoes for her size six feet. Her dirty blond, wildly curly locks were commonly covered up by a chunky headband with a small bow on the right side, or in turn a knit cap. She would choose colors that correspond with her mood and never wanted to be claimed as overly dramatic.
She usually avoided crowds since her trust only served purpose to one person. Her best friend was a shaggy haired photography major who had just decided to move out west. He was the only person she ever confined to- possibly because she desired the way his green eyes soothed each problem she had placed upon her. Once he told her he was leaving, she put out her cigarette and all she could think to say was, “try and stay away from all that ole’ west dust”. He responded only by looking straight at her, searching for the amazement that he saw sparkle every day. He pushed her stray hair behind her left ear, tied his braided bracelet around her wrist, and slipped away. Her ultimate high was gone.

Her drawing pad was designed with paint splatters about the cover. In small, almost unnoticeable cursive hand writing, there was a quote right below the top binding of the pad- “Nothing is as painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change” *. Her drawings were usually of nature: trees, flowers, and animals. Lately, she started a new theme: shaded faces. She would draw portraits, usually with one eye showing below the hair line that would take up most of the pages in her work book. Sometimes the faces would be presented over an environmental background, other times they would be alone on a blank canvas. But now her drawing pad was close to full, with only one blank page left- at the very beginning.

As she opened the door to her dorm room she noticed the lights were off, and her roommate was gone. She preferred to be alone, giving her pleasure to her findings. She sat her stuff down on her twin size bed that was unmade due to her blue polka dot sheets being messed about. Above her head board was a famous painting by Salvador Dali and next to her only window a collage containing the different pictures from her high school life with the same person found in each take. The little space she was given to store her clothes was filled up by her collection of books. Her favorite story, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, was the only one placed atop her dresser counter, standing straight by its spine.

Her afternoon art class was small with only six people around her. She sat at a broken table in the very back of the large sealed off room. She was surrounded in a half circle by numerous wooden easels. Each one with either a half finished, never to be completed painting, or a collective masterpiece. As her eyes moved back and forth about the room, all she heard through the silence was the sound of her ballet flats squeaking together on the cream tile floor. She found she had no desire to sketch trees, animals, or people on that rainy Wednesday. So she took out her drawing pad, and began to write a story of a lost girl on the single last page.





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