that the number written beside my name was ninety. At
that moment, I felt slightly elated. Until I saw something else:
Alice had scored one hundred for her creation.
How was it possible? Mine was
better in almost every aspect. Only the dress of her doll looked
more impressive. Did he grade our works based on clothes only?
Or did he despise the humble
look of mine? A servant could never triumph over the princess?
Did he give her high marks
because she was his favourite student? But it wasn’t fair. She was
great in her drawings, but it didn’t mean that she would be as good
in sculpting.
Art wasn’t a subject that could
be graded based on objective views after all. It was subjective. It
could be twisted by one’s bias. Dedication might not yield
fruits.
“Okay class. Get back to your
seats and start on your oil painting,” commanded Mr. Simpson.
I didn’t bother to acknowledge
his words. With my head lowered down, I stormed back to my
designated seat.
After I sat down, Mandy leaned
over to me and asked in a low voice, “Natalie, are you
alright?”
I bobbed my head in a mechanical
fashion.
When Mr. Simpson announced that
the theme of the day was “Beautiful Scenery”, a vivid image
manifested in my mind.
It might not conform to his idea
of beauty. But why should I draw something that was confined to his
narrow perceptions? No matter what, he would not give me the grades
I deserved.
What if the only sceneries he
considered as beautiful were those in grand settings? Like the
palace or mansion?
What would be his impression of
a desert filled with swirling, golden sand? How about a painting of
the nice, simple, clean streets of my neighbourhood? Would it be
too humble for his taste?
Even if I drew what he wanted,
my scores were still dependent on my popularity in class.
I stabbed my brush into the
dainty pot of black paint. The glass bottle protested with clinking
sounds as I stirred its contents violently. After pulling out the
brush and spilling the paint onto the table, I started to create
illustrations of raven black, long hair and a room filled with
decay and death. Splatters of white were smeared onto the paper to
produce the grey tones, the white uniform and numerous pallid faces
that were dotted around the walls. I threw in splashes of red to
show the pool of blood forming at the base of the corner.
The final product was a surreal
picture highlighting the beauty of bravery and remembrance. The
girl staring at the walls filled with the souls of the slain
warriors … and mourning their death—she was the only one who
lamented on the loss of individual lives.
Most people would only honour
them for what they did for the country. How many would regard them
as individuals who had aspirations and worries? And realized that
they wanted to live on as much as the rest of us?
Only that girl bothered to study
every face and try to hold onto the lingering thoughts of those
valiant fighters. It was truly a beautiful scenery.
I knew my classmates were
staring at my work in stunned silence. They would further refrain
from associating themselves with me. It might be for the better
since I preferred to be left alone anyway. The painting represented
my true feelings. I wasn’t proud of them, but I needed an outlet to
express them.
After the art teacher called it
a day, told us to leave the paintings on the table to dry and then
went out for his tea break, everyone jostled their way to the wash
area to wash their brushes. As usual, I remained seated until all
were done before stumbling over to stainless steel sink. Most of
the girls had left for the next lesson in our classroom.
Mandy took a hard look at me and
said, “See you later.”
“Okay,” I replied with a
listless voice.
She stood there for a short
while and then strolled out of the art room.
Being alone and feeling the cold
water running over my skin had a calming effect on me. However, the
water couldn’t flush away the depression that clouded
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