The Canvas

It doesn’t have to feel like a large space. Not right now. You can just take a few steps forward and find the pedals / ledge / stirrups where your feet can rest. The light is low and the white floor is warm.

There’s no one else here. No one is watching. You can’t get this wrong. 

You remember a teacher, the afternoon sunlight of a classroom and your drawing of a sunflower. 

The object you are clambering onto is strange. 

It’s sort of like:

A giant crayon

A Segway 

A pogo-stick

A paintbrush

A bumper car

‘What is that?’

‘A sunflower’

‘I don’t know if it quite looks like a sunflower. Why don’t you try again?’

It wants to move with you. It wants to move you. It wants to be moved by you. 

You take a deep breath, your feet find their balance, you lean, and you begin to move.  

You move a little faster. You hear the mark-maker touch the floor.

‘Why don’t you look at Cathy’s work? She’s drawn a rose. Cathy is very good at drawing.’

You look down. 

You see:

Lines

Scrapes

Strokes

Splatters

Dashes 

Sweeps

Fireworks

You are in control here.

Each movement leaving a smear of orange / green / blue. 

It knows what colour you want. You don’t ever have to tell it. 

The flooding of pink makes you smile.

You lean hard and begin to travel / to run / to dance into the empty space. 

Air rushes over your skin and you are flying. 

You now see how large the room is. Huge. A canvas stretched out and out and out. 

The door you entered through is now quite far behind you and a door with an exit sign is even smaller in the distance. 

You look at how far you’ve come. 

In the bright floor-shapes you see: 

A house

A storm

A garden

A cosmos

A pond

A lion

A rubbish-heap 

Your childhood bedroom

Soft lines begin to grow. Propelled by your movement, they spread out from the anchor that is you. 

When there is nothing more to say and nothing more to do, you stop. 

The museum staff are kind when you exit, not asking what you’ve done. 

They make tea and let you sit quietly for a while. When you’re ready, and only if you want to, they lead you up some stairs. 

A heavy door lets in colder air.  

You are on a balcony. The staff member remains close to the stairs as you walk slowly out to the railing. 

You look down and see your work. Your giant canvas. 

Fuck you, Cathy. 

It’s perfect.