The Birth of Venus

She was in love with colors. She used to have dates with her crayons, watercolors, colored pens and pencils, and oil pastel. Clean bond papers used to court her. ‘Though she hadn’t met canvas, she didn’t mind giving sheets of papers her attention. She preferred to see them gleaming with bright colors than remaining dull and dead. She liked adding color to their rather dreary guise.

At a very young age, she learned to handle with her little fingers that big black pencil she used in drawing anything on her room’s wall— the wall which she considered her confidante for it had seen her both at her best and worst. If she had tantrums, the wall would let her draw with her big black pencil what she was feeling, how sad or angry she was. But when she was in high spirits, she was fond of the little brush found inside the case of her cheap watercolor. She would get water in a small cup, dip the tip of the brush in it first then plunge it in her precious watercolor. Her little eyes would grow big in amazement as she had seen how those colorful gems were being dissolved when added with water. She would then excitedly paint rainbow, sun, grass, and flowers on one portion of her room’s wall.

For every stroke she made, it’s as if she was playing with a group of children outside their house. For a moment, she would forget how she felt bad when the children in their neighborhood didn’t let her to join patintero. She had her own set of friends— her room’s wall and her coloring materials. These were the friends that would never make fun of her.

After playing with her friends, she would be very delighted by her ‘work of art’. It was beyond compare with Picasso’s famous abstract painting. For a minute anyone would hear her hearty laughter. Then another minute would pass and the whole house would be filled with her painful cry. Why, her fuming mother didn’t like her ‘masterpiece’. Instead of admiration, what she got from her mother was a couple of smack in the butt plus a glorified pinch in the arm. In front of her friends she was humiliated. And worse, her mother didn’t let her play again with them. She kept them locked in her cabinet and she was only allowed to see them on Fridays when everybody in school was required to make an art work.

Friday had been her most awaited day of the week. She considered it her reunion with her friends. That’s why whenever she was meeting them she would make it a point to play with them at her best. At the end of the day, it was her work of art that was hanging first on the teacher’s wall of fame.

Every year, she would be getting certificates recognizing her talent in the world of arts. It was only her mother who usually accompanied her upstage. Her mother was glad to have someone in the family who knew how to draw. ‘Though sometimes, she was wondering if her mother would again be fuming red if she would draw or paint something ‘nice’ on her room’s wall. But this time, she would really have to make it more exquisite than that of Picasso’s. Her mother could not afford to spend again a single penny just to have her room’s wall be painted in white.

When she was missing her friends, what she would do was sneak a pencil from her younger brother, get her notebook and lock herself in her room. She would try to draw a rainbow just like what she did on the wall. But she was not satisfied because she could not see red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. All she could see was the dry shade of a pencil’s lead. She would then carefully tear that page from her notebook making sure that all her notebook’s leaves would not be detached. She would start all over again. But this time, she would not draw. Instead she would write what she was feeling at the moment. But before finishing her composition, she would then realize that someone might read what she had written. Without second thoughts, she would again tear that page apart.

During her friends’ absence, she wasn’t totally alone. Words kept knocking on her door offering friendship. She wasn’t disturbed at first. But when she was on her own, these words would never leave her. What she hated the most was when she was in the lavatory and they kept on running inside her thoughts. She wanted them to just evaporate but their too strong and stubborn. She could not contain them in her mind that’s why she had no choice but to hurriedly go out and release those demanding words into whatever piece of paper she would find. She wanted to be as accommodating as she could but she wasn’t happy with them. She thought words were very unfathomable. They were very mysterious and it’s too risky to trust them unlike her friends whom she had known from the very beginning. So every time words would try to invade her thoughts, she would avoid them as hard as she could.

It was established in their school as well as at home that she was good in arts. When there were competitions in and outside school, she would usually be the representative. When she was in the sixth grade, she placed second in a poster-making contest held for the Nutrition Month. In high school, her design for the Intramurals t-shirt won. Hundreds of students and the faculty had worn her design.

Her friends didn’t only help her leave a legacy in the school. They even helped her financially—there were occasions like Mother’s Day and birthday of her father when she didn’t have enough money to buy gifts, so what she did was buy a white cartolina, cut it in half and drew their portraits. Her mom said it was the best gift she had ever received and her father was pleased as well.

It was settled then on the young lady’s mind on what course she would take in college. Even her teachers expected her to take Fine Arts. However, her father didn’t approve. She tried to get support from her mother but she didn’t succeed. Her parents thought Fine Arts was not a practical course to take. Instead, she was asked to take Journalism as a prelaw course. Her parents wanted her to pursue Law afterwards. Bearing her silent protest, she abided. And she had lost her first love.

For the second time, words tried to befriend her. She thought of giving them a chance. She learned later on that they were not as indecipherable as what she thought at first. She was having fun exploring them— their form, their structure, how they could be in the same sentence and yet having different meanings. She was dumbfounded by the versatility of each word. For every piece she would compose, it’s like she was painting or drawing all over again. She would write straight news just like she would draw a grass or write feature article just like her rainbow on her room’s wall. Unconsciously, she was enjoying the craft.

It was one ordinary day in November 2005 when she clearly heard a calling. She saw an announcement posted in one of the bulletin boards in the university where she was studying inviting all who have penchant for writing to join the university-wide literary contest. At the sight of the announcement, ideas immediately rushed into her mind. And these ideas became words. And these words formed her short story which was her entry for the contest. When she was writing her short story, she wondered if Juan Luna felt the same way as she while he was painting his Spoliarium— the intense feeling that you have a responsibility and it is your duty to make your audience see the truth that lies beneath your work of art.

Her entry was recognized in the competition. It was her first time to receive such recognition using only pen and paper as tools. At first she thought it was just her luck. But when she joined again in the following year and won for the second time, she somehow gained confidence in her writing. Nevertheless, she believed she still has a long way to go. Writing is a continuous learning and it needs incessant practice to improve, develop, and be able to come up with a masterpiece— a work of art that would inspire others. Somehow she didn’t lose her first love. It was just transformed into another form where she could better express her own voice. She realized she could do a lot with only a pen at hand. She need not have anything colorful to make something colorful. Words are the best art material that could make the best painting in the world.