My Vignette

By Purti Sharma

If I were a painting, I would not be trapped in this box of a body. I would be scattered, like pieces of broken glass, spread across a blank canvas in specks and swathes of paint. Like the essence of a scented candle, I would merge into anything and everything- words, books, and poetry. In dried leaves, stars, and tall palm trees. In the curious mind of a juvenile and in the eyes of the souls I meet.

I would be an oilcloth- splattered with cherry red, mustard yellow, and baby pink. But also with coffee brown, steel gray, and jet black. I would be an array of hues, but also a spectrum of black and white. I would be chaos and also order. I would be foreign but also familiar.

I would not be predictable but rather something completely unexpected. Abrupt even. You would not be satisfied just by stealing a glance. You would have to look deeper, bore in, literally, and decipher the mix of shades from which I am born.

You would feel unsettled-you would know something’s missing. And to crack that nut, you would have to take the artwork home, sit in front of it, cross-legged, and lose track of time. And maybe then, you’ll finally discover my true colors- My pinks, my greens, my yellows. And also my grays, my violets, and blues.

That is how I would look to the simpleminded- nothing, but the work of a confused, fallen artist. But only the free-willed would make sense of the masterpiece I would make.

By Purti Sharma