On Who I Am
Susan E.Bartlett April 2019

The windows of the studio
were covered,
all glass and metal objects put away,
the easels had been turned
in all directions,
the artists entered one by one
that day.
The instructor was so small
I couldn’t see him,
but the voice I heard befitted
someone tall.
“From this time on, don’t glance at one another.
Until you’re done
look only at the wall.”
“Today you’ll paint a portrait with no model
except the one who’s seated
in your chair.
Paint only what you see
as you glance inward.
No painting what you wish for,
paint what’s there.”
“At last!” I thought,
“the time to show my genius,
a chance this day,
to prove just what I’m worth.
I’ll choose the brightest colors for my painting.
I’ve known the shades I’m made of
since my birth.”
Unopened tubes of paint
were laid before me,
I sorted out the brushes with great care.
“And now,”
I thought,
“begin at the beginning,
I’ll pick a lovely color
For my hair.”
“It’s not your hair I want to see.”
He whispered.
I hadn’t even noticed
that he’d come
to hover over my, as yet,
blank canvas,
to ruminate on how I had begun.
A paper floated slowly
toward my palette.
I caught it just before it hit my paint.
the letters were so small
I couldn’t read them,
no matter what I did
they still looked faint.
“Read the signs
and follow the directions.”
He whispered one more time into my ear.
“You’re here to paint your soul
just as you see it.
There is no room for
vanity in here.”
“I’m not prepared to do this!”
was my answer.
“You never said a word about the soul.
I’m only here to learn to paint
what pleases.
I’m only here to learn to play a role.”
“Then you will fail,”
he said, and I was left there
to stare in desperation at my task.
I can’t go on
and yet I can’t go backwards,
I have so many questions
still to ask.
I need someone to tell me
I see clearly,
the colors that my soul was meant to be.
Without some other human
intervention,
I’ll never know
just how to look at me.
The paper in my hand
appeared to tremble.
The writing which was faint now seemed to glow.
It listed all my faults outlined
in order,
one column by a friend,
one by a foe.
The paper held so many contradictions,
the painting would show chaos,
not my face.
“I can’t use this!”
I cried into the silence.
I’m going to just go
and leave this place.”
In very tiny print, just at the bottom,
there was a warning which
I hadn’t read.
“You cannot leave
until you paint your canvas.
All work will be completed
‘fore you’re dead.”
“Then I’ll be here forever, fool,”
I shouted,
“I can’t complete my work
without some aide.
I need someone to tell me what
I look like.
I need someone to tell me how I’m made.”
In front of me, a tube of paint
sat opened.
I hadn’t seen this brand of paint before.
The color said just “God”
with no shade listed,
“lasts forever
never purchase more.”
I filled my brush and worked
away ‘til sunset.
I could barely see my canvas
in the light.
When I was done
I left with the professor.
we talked together long into the night.
Artwork: Gustave Doré