Chapter 4: No Words Needed

I remember it clearly, so very clearly. It was surprising considering that most of my young childhood was much of a blur, probably because I had tried so hard to forget, causing my brain to automatically blur out certain pieces of my memory.

I remember feeling so small in that huge room, looking up and down at all paintings that hung on the walls, leaning against pieces of furniture, stacked up in piles in the corners of the room as the sunlight flooded its way through the window. It was a bit of a bombsite actually, there were just pieces of art scattered around the room, in an un-organized and untidy manner.

I tilted my head up, squinting my eyes, trying to gain some sort of understanding as to what had been drawn on the canvases.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to be here, but being as young as I was, I couldn’t help but feed my overly curious and immature mind. I just didn’t understand.

I remember how my small feet creaked against the unattractive wooden flooring that had been covered with a rather large and dusty rug, and the way I was trying my best to keep quiet, trying my best to hide the fact that I had snuck in here without my parents knowing.

The thing that I didn’t get was how each one looked so realistic, so genuine that it made you think that it was a photo taken with a camera, but all of them also had a sense of fiction about them, something that was unreal, something that didn’t make sense about them, a certain something that left you thinking and pondering.

I walked around the perimeter of the room, surveying all of the handmade pictures and slotting them into categories of which ones I liked, the ones that I didn’t think much of and the ones that I didn’t understand. The last category was filled to the brim by the time I got back to my starting place.

In the center of the room stood a painting easel with a stool in front of it. From where I was standing, I couldn’t see what was painted on it, since I was only viewing it from the back. I tilted my head in curiosity, furrowing my eyebrows together as I pouted my lips.

Would I get into trouble if I took a peak? My mother had said that she didn’t like anyone seeing her work until she had fully completed it.

Shaking the thought off, I took slow and creaky steps towards it, biting my lip in concentration as I tried to make the least amount of noise possible.

I made my way to the front of the canvas, letting my young eyes soak up the piece of art that had been created.

It was unfinished, but it had struck a nerve of familiarity as my eyes met the picture. It was a beach, with a house, a sunset with…a happy family walking hand in hand across the shore. A mother, a child, and a father.

I had been to this place before. It was my parent’s holiday home. They used to take me there every year around summer time, but for some reason, this year, our trip never happened. I do remember asking why we couldn’t go, but my parents never really gave me much of a straight answer, always giving me a wishy-washy reply that would confuse my underdeveloped brain.

I let my pupils glide over the fine and unfinished detail. I liked this painting. That was for sure. It didn’t confuse me like the rest of them did, and it made me feel warm inside, happy.

I extended my hand out, wanting to graze my fingers over the expression that had been put on the canvas. I wanted to feel it for myself, see whether I could feel the emotions just through the mere pigments of my skin.

I found myself in awe, as my hand got closer, my heart racing quicker.

“Taeyeon?”

I immediately retreated my small hand, snapping it back by side as I shot my gaze towards the door, my eyes stricken with fear. I was going to get into so much trouble for this, I just knew it. My mother never liked it when I came in here without her permission.

I saw my 5 months pregnant mother standing in the doorway. She looked at me, giving me a stern stare.

“What are you doing in here?” She asked, stepping fully into the room, glancing around, as if to see if I had touched or broken anything.

I gave a ninety-degree bow. “I’m sorry, mother. I just wanted to look at some of your paintings. I’ll never do it again.” I didn’t look up to meet her gaze, I just quickly walked by her, my head bowed as I made my way past.

I was about halfway to the door, I had a small glimmer of hope that I would get out of here without being scolded, but my hope was soon diminished.

“Taeyeon, come back here.” Her voice was softer this time, but it still made me halt, almost instantly as my small heart thumped against my chest.

I slowly turned around, to now find her sitting on the stool she had set up in front of the easel. Her expression was softer, less stern. Maybe she wasn’t going to lecture me? She gestured for me to come over.

I cautiously walked closer to her, unsure of what events were going to unfold.

“Stand here.”

I stood facing her. She brushed my fringe out of my eyes, a soft smile on her lips. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, so I’m not going to get you into trouble.” She gave a small chuckle as her eyes glided over my features.

She had a glow about her, as if the sun was rising behind her and illuminating her beauty as she sat before me.

“Turn around.” She said softly, turning me around to face the canvas. I felt her comb her gentle fingers through my hair and we both gazed at the nostalgic painting in front of us. “Do you like the paintings?” She asked.

I nodded slowly. “Yes, I do like them. I like this one the most, though.” I said, getting lost as I let my eyes follow the endless and delicate brushstrokes of paint that graced over the material.

“Good. Do want to learn how to paint?”

I gave another nod. “Yes, I think I would.”

She stood, walked over to the other side of the room, and grabbed two old shirts that were covered in splatters of paint.

She came back, draped the over sized piece of clothing around my small frame and buttoned it up from behind.

“I’ll teach you.” She said as she sat back down on the stool, putting her own apron on. “Watch.”

Her hands came round either side of me, a paintbrush in her right hand, paint pallet in the other. I watched in awe as her hand made graceful and skilled movements, mixing the paint, getting the right shade and tone of blue for the sea. I didn’t speak, I only watched.

“The thing with art, Taeyeon, is that, it’s not fact. There’s no set way for someone to do art. It all comes from the brain and the heart.” She said, making her first few soft of paint “The truth is, I can’t really teach you how to be good at art. The only way that you can get good at art is through time and patience. Of course, I could give you a few tips, but the only way you really learn, is through your own experience.” Her hands were still busy with the brush as her complexed words rang through my head.

We sat in a moment of silence as I watched her intently through dazed eyes.

“Mother, I don’t understand what some of these paintings have painted on them.” I stated, furrowing my eyebrows.

“You don’t have to understand. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Though sometimes, you may not understand what has been made, the artist themselves will understand.”

I gave another slow nod. “What is art?”

She stopped her painting, moving the brush away from the canvas.

“Well, art doesn’t really have a definition. It’s a form of expression. Like when you feel angry or sad.” Her voice was distant as if she, herself,