On Gender, Femininity and Canvases
Transcript: I like to paint with the colour pink. I hold a paintbrush in my hands. A soft blush breaking the white canvas. A dash of magenta here, a pale red spills there. The colours blend into something bold, defined. Sometimes a drop of blue, it drips into the pink and makes the most beautiful purples you’ve ever seen. Not too much, just enough to feel right. You can still see the spots left bare and white. But you pick up my painting, you poke at it and touch. Pointing at my careful strokes, the canvas I left unmarked. “Look here,” you say “look here!” “The crimson canvas underneath” I shake my head and pull away, “it isn’t true at all.” But when I look again I see the red handprints you left. You take my painting, the careful strokes I used, and on top you spill paints I never wanted. “Look here,” they say, “look here!” “The way the reds and pinks compliment each other” “and this purple here” “what a bold choice of contrast” I shake my head and pull my painting away “no!” I cry “this isn’t right!” But as I look at the canvas I can only see the red sky looking back, splashed with lilac clouds.
My hands shake as I reach for the paints again. I hover over the pink, and think of the vermillion canvas underneath. A beautiful portrait indeed. And not at all one that feels like me. Instead I reach for something new. A purple paint at first, the twinge of familiarity helps me to feel at home. Until I begin to paint in brilliant blue. People stop and stare, confused at first, then reactions change. Some scoff or scorn, others nod and smile, thinking what a bold choice I’ve made. But others stop in quiet contemplation. They pause to run a finger over my paint. My heart skips a moment, but the canvas is not stained. Then they turn to me, and show me their masterpiece. They’re an artist too, and they show me their canvas once stained blue. They said my art felt familiar. And I in turn, find a home in their painted nebula. They show me to a gallery. They show me a hall of portraits just like ours. Of people and their artistry. With colours I had never imagined. My canvas hangs there too, and in this light I see, a bit of white shining through.
