The Art Room

October 25, 2008
By Jordan Gonzales SILVER, Sacramento, California
Jordan Gonzales SILVER, Sacramento, California
6 articles 0 photos 0 comments

It is an incubator for ideas; a place where the idea’s can be protected and bloom into beautiful works of art. The Art Room is my haven, my domain, my true home. I turn on the lights and the room becomes alive - alive with color, smell, and most importantly ideas.

Walking in the room, my entire body changes to the tune of the Art Room, and my mind is cleared. I become peaceful, in a state of Zen. Then, I put the sounds of my music into my ears and head, making sure the trademark white headphones do not get paint on them. Abruptly, my peaceful state turns to frantic rushing. Brushes-check, paints-check, paper towels-check, sheet-check, water-check, and most importantly: canvas-check. I take a deep breath and with one sudden move I paint. Red! Blue! Green! Gold! Silver! Purple! All are thrown on in a frantic heap as the smell of the paints fuels my enthusiasm. Music is still blaring in my ears, influencing how the canvas will look. Then-the fear happens: the point where I don’t know what to do.

I stare at the canvas, my mind frozen. I look behind me and see my dog staring right back at me. His coat looking remarkably similar to the burnt orange painting I have in front of me. His face is one of confusion and wondering. I imagine what he is thinking: “Are we done here?” My eyes scan the small book case across from me, not filled with works of literature, but instead, with art supplies. The cogs in my head are turning, trying to decide if there is something in those containers I can harness to help finish my painting. I look at the walls of the Art Room, past work plastered on for all to see. These works of art are in pastel, not paint. These paintings have a smeared look to them. Then my eyes widen, my mind starts to race again with ideas. Suddenly, on impulse alone, I act.

My hand feels the top corner of the canvas; it is a rough surface, yet smooth because of the paint. I slowing rub my hand back and forth, side to side. I discover the look I have been searching for: my hand is making the paint shimmer and blend. I go faster, and faster, rubbing my index and middle finger along the entire canvas! In the end, I am left with a painting that is as complex as a strand of DNA.

As I begin to leave the room, I take one last look until next time. The brightly painted room of turquoise and yellow is the room where my life is translated into paint and pastel-where all my worries, all my fears, all my pain, and all my joy is transferred onto canvas and paper.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Swoon Reads

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!