Stroke Of Fate

My hands were warmed by the mug of freshly brewed tea I held in my hands as I gazed out the window. It was dreary inside, but the world outside my studio was vibrant and alive, buzzing with the energy of those who pursued dreams without hesitation. From where I stand, the air was heavy, thick with self-doubt and the suffocating grip of depression. My only comfort was the canvas, and I was an artist, or at least that's what I called myself. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed I would always be trapped within the confines of my own mind, bound to my own unhappiness. It was like I was just waiting for someone to see me, a damsel trapped in a tower of her own making.

Every stroke of my brush, every pencil mark on the canvas, was an expression of my deepest emotions. I poured my soul into my art, yet I was plagued by an unrelenting fear of sharing it with others. The thought of exposing my vulnerabilities to the world sent waves of anxiety crashing against the walls of my mind. I lived and breathed in this space, occasionally taking a photo to share on a website an old friend had created for me. They too had been swallowed by my darkness, and were forced into the light when they couldn’t take it any longer. I don’t blame them, if I could find a way out I would try too.

My creations accumulated in the dimly lit corners of my studio. Each completed piece brought both a sense of accomplishment and a pang of emptiness. It was like watching parts of me escape, only to remain trapped in this room. My paintings and my creations were as stuck as I was. It was almost as though I felt guilty, keeping them here. I suppose it’s why I did share them on the website. I didn’t want them to waste away like I was, and if they were ever looking, I wanted my old friend to know that I still thought of them. One darker than usual afternoon, as I stared at an empty canvas, a knock on the door shattered the silence. Reluctantly, I dragged myself to answer, partially hoping that my old friend had come back for me.

But when I opened the door, my eyes met the most radiant pair of blue eyes I had ever seen. I just stood there, knowing very well that I looked like a mess. My brown hair was thrown up in a messy bun, and not the cute kind. There were bags under my eyes that I didn’t bother trying to conceal. In that moment, I remembered how my old friend would say that green eyeliner would make my brown eyes pop. Staring into the depth of the blue in front of me, I found myself wondering how to make my own shimmer like that. It took him speaking for me to realize I’d open the door just to stare in wonder.

"Hi," the stranger said, breaking my awkward silence. There was a kind smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I'm Xavier. I happened to see your work online, and I was captivated. I saw the address of your studio and thought I’d come by. I know it’s a bit last minute, but would you mind if I took a closer look?"

My heart raced, torn between the fear of judgment and the desperate longing to be seen. This was new, and terrifying, but I didn’t want to waste it. With a shaky voice, I invited Xavier into my sanctuary. His presence filled the room, a warm light in the darkness that consumed me. The darkness I often let consume me. I found myself watching him as he sauntered around the room, and I clutched the paintbrush I was holding to my chest as he moved in silence. He moved from piece to piece, his eyes filled with awe and wonder. I watched him, my heart pounding in my chest, as he absorbed the emotions I had borne on canvas. It was as if my art had found its perfect audience, someone who understood the depths from which it emerged.

I didn’t speak, there was nothing for me to say. Part of me believed I was delusional for thinking that he could possibly understand the work in front of him, not with the light that seemed to emanate from his very being. My work was dark, torn, unhinged. But finally, he turned to me, his expression a mix of admiration and curiosity. "These are incredible, truly remarkable. Each piece has a unique voice, a rawness that speaks to the soul. Have you ever considered showcasing your work?"

My mouth fell slightly agape as his words hung in the air between us. My voice was horse when I spoke, “Showcase?” My fingers gripped the brush I was holding so hard that my fingertips were becoming discolored in response.

“Yes,” He said, his eyes dancing from piece to piece as he gestured around him, “I have a space that I think your work would be perfect for.”

“I’m sorry, I, I just haven’t ever been offered something like this.” I stuttered, unsure of myself and of this person in front of me.

“I figured as much, considering your art isn’t anywhere but that simple website. Look, Arianna, I think there’s incredibly potential here and all you have to do is say yes.” He extended his hand towards me, and I could see the stains of paint on his own fingers.

I raised my own hand and placed it in his, “Ari,” I said, “I go by Ari.”

“Noted. So is that a yes, Ari?”

I shook my head with every fiber of my being and tried not to let the tears in my eyes spill over. He wrote the details on when and where the showcase would be and told me to bring my best pieces. It was so simple, so easy, I never would have guessed that my life would change forever in the weeks that followed that moment. When I returned to that blank canvas I’d been staring at when Xavier’s knock broke through, I painted blue. My strokes were wild and feverish as I tried to capture how his eyes struck me in the moment I opened the door. I grabbed every color I could reach to highlight the space around the eyes on the canvas, showing how they radiated. When I was finished, I smiled as I looked into the eyes staring back at me.

Xavier would come by more and more in the weeks leading up to the showcase. His arm would brush against mine, and I’d tell myself it was nothing more than an accident. He was here for the art, nothing more. He told me about his childhood, and how his parents were absent for most of it. He had to step up and take care of his younger brother, and he carried that weight for years. I told him how my mom had gotten sick when I was young, and how my father left when it became too much for him. I became invisible, I told him. I lingered in the shadow of her illness as I grew into an adult. He didn’t have much to say to that, but I think we both had a silent understand of how we’d been shaped into artists.

Then came the day of the showcase, and I sipped wine nervously in the corner as people filtered in. I watched in silence as strangers eyes welled at my work, as if their own emotions could not be contained in their presence. I’d never been so grateful to be invisible as I watched them all. I’d always taken my way of disappearing to be something to be ashamed of, but here in this moment, my heart bloomed as I watched from a distance. Xavier’s voice called out, breaking the silence as he had so often come to do. He locked eyes with me as he spoke, as a clothed pieced was rolled out behind him. I was confused, but amused at whatever he had planned.

In an instant, there was a spotlight illuminating my corner as he pulled away the cloth. As I adjusted to the light, I saw the painting of his eyes in the center of the room. It looked beautiful, and while I was in the spotlight, everyone flocked to see the piece. A hand fell gently on my back, and I turned to see Xavier standing next to me as he leaned in and whispered, “I see you, Ari.” I kissed him like any person would in a moment like that. He was beaming as we parted, and he asked, “Now what?”

I looked around me, and realized there was one thing missing. “There’s an old friend of mine I need to call.”