Letters to Audrine

6- Never Lose Your Magic

"This is called a Pollock painting," my grandpa told me as we stood side by side in front of a blank, white canvas laying on the ground. He handed me a paint brush and said, "Dip your brush. Choose whatever color you want."

I was only nine years old and eager to learn how to paint so that I could be just like my grandpa. Listening to his instructions, I chose a light purple color from the paints that he had prepared for us. "What do I do now, grandpa?" I asked him.

"Now," he said as he dipped his brush in a yellow paint. "You aim, and you fire."

And with that, he flicked his brush toward the canvas, flinging the paint through the air. The sudden movement startled me, and I jumped back with a loud shriek and then a laugh. "That's so messy!"

"That's the fun of it," he told me with a wide grin on his dry, wrinkling face. "You try it."

It feels wrong to be making such a mess, even though this is his art room and he'd always told me that this room was made for messes. And even though I had his permission to fling paint through the air, it still felt wrong. It felt like my mom would spin around that corner any second and scold me for being so reckless.

"It's okay, Maisie," my grandpa could sense my hesitation. "You're not supposed to think about it at all, you just leave it all out on the canvas."

Pinching my lips together with my teeth, I close my eyes and then fling my paintbrush like my grandpa just did. When I opened my eyes, the purple paint from the brush had splattered a line across the canvas.

"That was good," he encouraged me. "Try again."

"What's it supposed to look like?" I asked him, feeling very confused about what the end product of this painting is supposed to be. I was used to following rules and guidelines, so it felt strange to have a blank, white canvas that needed color, but no rules on how to fill it.

"It's supposed to look like whatever you want it to look like," he told me with a deep, rumbling laugh. "Just use your imagination."

I dipped my paint brush in the same purple, and flung more paint toward the canvas. This time, I felt more confident in my movements and even though some of the paint missed the canvas, I just reminded myself that this room was for messes, and the mess was okay.

"Nicely done, Maisie," he sounded proud of me. I liked hearing him praise me, even though I didn't feel like I really did anything to deserve praise. Throwing paint at a canvas was so easy, a baby could do it. I had to work much harder to earn praise from my parents, or my other grandparents.

With every toss of the brush, I gained more confidence. I even changed colors to a lime green. It doesn't look very good with the purple that I'd already used, but my grandpa never really cared about the rules of color theory.

"You have paint on your face, Grandpa," I said to him with a high pitched laugh. It looked like as he was flinging the paint onto the canvas, the swings were also flinging paint onto his face.

"That's part of the fun," he shrugged it off, and then tossed some more paint. I loved spending time with my grandpa for this exact reason. He didn't make me follow a thousand rules, and he was able to laugh at imperfections. Nothing ever had to be perfect, and he only cared about the people around him being happy.

Once I gained enough confidence in my paint-flinging abilities, I started to really enjoy myself. I started dancing around the canvas as I flicked the paint onto the canvas. Even though I could tell that the paint was getting onto my dress and shoes, I didn't care because I knew that my grandpa wouldn't get upset about it, and would instead embrace the mess.