Painting Paper Hearts | ✔

Chapter 1- Feelings in a Canvas

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February 3, 2011

Vancouver, B.C.

I slumped as I listened to my professor's lecture about the beginning of numeracy.

The class was nothing but a bore. I never really liked history subject but I had to take the course since a Natural Science was mandatory to finish my program. For three hours, the professor would go through about fifteen slides and talk about numbers passionately.

I had known a bit about passion. I'd seen it.

I was raised in a humble home. My father was a street artist, and only because it was not secluded in an art gallery, people discouraged him because they perceive his kind of art as vandalizing.

Had it not been for wealthy socialites with too much money to spend on paying art, dad would not make ends meet.

My mom had told me stories about my dad; how excited he was to finish a mural. At that time, he had dreams and hopes for me. He even sold a piece and named it "Emerald". Unfortunately, he had passed away even before I was born.

Mom believed that dad's love and talent in painting somehow transferred to me. At age six, I begged my mom to buy me colors and small canvas at the dollar store instead of Barbie toys and new clothes. She'd even let me paint to my heart's content.

In eighth grade, I began getting compliments from acquaintances and especially my art teacher. They loved my paintings. They'd say they'd buy them for few dollars and I felt like the happiest kid in the block.

As soon as I turned sixteen, I worked part time so I could buy a better set of brush that would last longer and wouldn't break after little use, a wide array of shades of colors, and bigger canvases. It was when I realized how fervent I was with painting.

Mom allowed me to use the storage room where she kept all of dad's painting. Inside the small room which she kept locked for years, I witnessed the embodiment of hard work and perseverance. He had so many pieces that ended up in the trash; some were covered in dust and white cloth, and some were unfinished.

My heart ached every time I looked at them. I could almost envision my father's frustration to make the pieces happen. He must've ran out of inspiration while the industry pushed him to do more, to create more art.

But in the end, it cost my father to take his own life.

Mom said she was about to have me when "that" had happened. Dad's death was a taboo around mom so I never really pried some more. In fact, I couldn't imagine even the heartache mom had gone through when dad passed away.

Mom initially opposed my decision to make a career out of painting. She feared I'd end up like my dad. But I reassured her that whatever happens, I'd still stay sane and in contact with my sensibilities.

"Let's end the discussion here. I'll see you next class," everybody sighed in relief as the professor beamed and said those magic words.

I guess it's not just me who wants to get out of this class, pronto. I thought.

I glanced at my wrist watch to check the time. Noreen could be waiting in the cafeteria right now.

I wouldn't say that I considered her as one of my closest friend, but we kind of ended up hanging out together between classes since we were attending the same program.