Painthings (2/3)
The second story of the 3 part Haés Painthing collection | Read time: 5 min
With wild, yet calculated wrist flicks, Emmanuella stood whisking her brush like a wand. Soft sapphire streaks shot across the canvas, capturing her feelings. If eyes could emit sound, hers would be giggling. Emmanuella felt like a wizard from her favourite series of books, and painting felt like magick.
In the midst of her fervour, Emmanuella began to feel the room pulsate. The vibrations reminded her of Rosetta's furry little heartbeat when she'd curl up against Emmanuella on the couch. Spying from behind her canvas she saw her father lost in a song, bopping about by himself as he slipped an album back to its alphabetized place on the shelf below the record player. Gentle shakes shivered up her arm and back, her smile felt like it could tear the corners of her lips.
His head spun like a snap, catching her peeking, he must have heard her laughing. Emmanuella rolled her eyes. Both at her ridiculous old man, and in part at herself. Annoyed again to be caught by something involuntary, beyond her control, and outside of her perception. Spurring her embarrassment Able danced about, spinning brushes through his fingers, and air drumming along to the invisible music. Emmanuella looked away, refusing to dignify his shenanigans with her attention. But despite her efforts, she couldn't hold her smile back. She shook harder, and fumed to herself as she returned to her painting, refusing to give her father anymore satisfaction, or encouragement.
The hairs of her brush blotted with colour as Emmanuella mixed a cloudy sigh with a rosie pink. Moments like this were always a happy sad. Emmanuella loved her father, even if he was a goof. But when she laughed, she felt self conscious. She worried about the sounds she made. She was afraid they might be ugly. Emmanuella blew out a deep, calming breath, felt it roll across her arm, and flow into a ballet of brush strokes. Comfortably submerged within the moment, Emmanuella watched the bristles as they dabbed across a layer of royal purple paint. She began mimicking them by mushing her eyelashes together, wondering what they sounded like and if it was similar to one another.
Immersing with paint and the creative act is where Emmanuella found her calm. It's where her ear's opened and she forgot herself, forgot she was deaf. Brush, dip, brush, dip, she rocked on her stool, the vibrations from the music moving her, guiding her hand. The moment she became conscious of her movements the spell shattered. It was all so confusing, what could they hear that she couldn't? What was she missing? What was it actually like? She could see the differences watching their conversations, watching them laugh. She saw their mouths move and understood the shapes, she saw the movement in movies when the writing appeared underneath and could sort of read lips. She saw her mother jump when the broom fell and her back was turned. Emmanuella knew that when Rosetta tried to speak it seemed to annoy everyone. She knew if her family mimicked Rosetta that it was different from how they spoke to each other. She knew, that if she was alone in a forest, and a tree collapsed beside, her it would make an invisible, incomprehensible noise. And she would know nothing of it.
Emmanuella could hear her father shuffling about behind his easel, and by hear, she knew she meant feel. What she was starting to feel, was mad. Emmanuella paused and stared at her shining canvas, using her anger as an opportunity to let the paint dry. It wasn't that she was mad at her father, quite the opposite, she felt frustrated. Emmanuella hated reminders that she was different. The thought that she was experiencing less, made her feel that she was less. A steaming exhale puffed her lips.
With fury she diluted some purple, making a colour for her father. Not the deep royal that she'd layered before, but a gentle, watery lavender, his favourite. Emmanuella wanted to add something special for him despite her sudden flash of anger. She was angry with him for making her feel special, when her head said she wasn't. Emmanuella was conflicted, and even at her age she knew her fury was irrational, her irritation displaced. She felt like she was being pulled apart by the experience. She loved painting, she loved her father, she loved spending time with him, she loved the way he thought she loved him putting on music, she loved that he made her hear in a way she never imagined was possible. It was her self esteem that she hated. That loathsome little voice that never left her. The one that made her feel alone. The one that told her she was less.
In the reflection of the drying colours Emmanuella thought about why, and what they were doing. Today, she was painting the wind. She was painting the way the wind sounded to her. They were painting together because months before Able had convinced her that she could hear, just in a different way from everyone else. They had been typing to each other on a laptop creating a thread within a text document. Emmanuella knew her father cherished communicating with her like that. He loved saving their conversations. Able struggled to sign all his feelings, but wasn't intimidated by the obstacles between them. Instead he flourished at finding silver linings. He explained that when he listened close to things he could hear colours, he heard it in music, he heard it in her laugh. That great artists had also heard colours, and he himself tried to make music that way- by writing songs as if they were paintings. He thought that she could do the same, by painting what she heard, what she felt like things sounded like. What her mother's smile sounded like, what sound their dog's tail made when it was wagging. He’d ask her to consider the sounds of everything. What did it sound like when her grandfather scooped chocolate ice cream? What did it sound like when her mother kissed her on the forehead before she dreamed? Her father wanted to know. Able wanted Emmanuella to show him.
Her father gave her books filled with different paintings, where the shapes didn't make sense, where there was no distinguishable figure. It was chaos. It was confusing, it was gorgeous. He told her there are no rules in art, as long as it's honest. Just like when we hold hands, the colours on the canvas do not have to match. That's not what it means to be family, remember? The colours don't make it true, the feelings behind them do.
Emmanuella was confused, enthralled and eager to begin. Painting with her father was more fun than she had imagined. Emmanuella had so much to explore, so much to express. The first time she showed her mother what their hugs sounded like, Magema wept. Emmanuella thought she did something wrong. Magema told her it was difficult to put into words. That sometimes you get so happy you also cry, that your heart is so touched your feelings transcend their regular capacity, blurring with other emotions. Her father said that this was what every great artist was looking for, and was the highest form of living. He said that she was special, and could translate for everyone else all the beautiful sounds they couldn't hear on their own. They could hear the noise but they couldn’t hear the truth.
Focusing on memories of the sounds made feelings leap within her, and caused her arm to jump in tandem. Closing her eyes, Emmanuella let her hand dance. She felt the music in the air, welcomed it through her, ushering it upon the canvas. She ignored the awful voice rattling within her, and allowed her vocal cords to vibrate as she painted, letting wood of the brush handle tap, drumming along on her palette. Emmanuella knew her father was listening. She was beginning to understand this was another way the two of them could speak, and that it was special between them.
Today she was telling her father what the wind sounded like, and it was a breeze.
Thanks for reading,
-Mr Write