Snow Witch'S Journey
Painting lessons

The result, very disappointing. Or at least for a painter like Charley. To be honest, I can still enjoy what I created on the canvas with my own hands. That's not so bad.

“Indeed there are many different painting styles for each person. But, I don't know what style she's wearing. The color that you wear is less thick to indicate the firmness and depth of the element. Then, the use of monotonous colors in the sky and sea makes the two most crucial things difficult to distinguish. The scratch technique that Miss used also did not strengthen its value. And the worst thing is that there is no essence of life that I can feel from the depiction of this lady of the sky scene. Hollowly. Not worth. It's more like a picture from a photographic instrument than a painting. Sorry, miss has no talent at all.”

My earlobes became hot and red. The man really couldn't help his words. Constantly being pounded by the facts he gave me, made me want to leave this world. “That's enough. No need to continue again.” I sighed irritably mixed sadly. “It's really that ugly huh? My mom didn't even criticize me in that detail.”

I saw again the painting that Charley considered bad. A blue night sky with the sea illuminated by the moon. This painting depicts the beauty hidden behind the silence of the night. This is a sight I often see on the Cliffs of Hope. When I can't sleep, I usually open my bedroom window or sit on the edge of a cliff staring at the night with all the stars. The position of the stars and the moon, the color, the sensation of sunyinya, and the exposure of the night wind that roamed my body I already remember very well. I thought painting something I remembered would make the painting even more real. Therefore, I felt confident with my painting— before Charley showed his continued brightness in front of me.

“For me, ugly and nice it was the obvious thing in my eyes. I can't say it's good when my eyes judge it bad, and I can't think it's bad if my eyes are spoiled. Just like you, miss. You are beautiful, so I must say beautiful. Whatever other people's response.”

I looked at the average face of the man who was flat as if showing no mercy. “It's not good to be too honest. You can be used by others.”

Charley took the paint palette and brush from my hand and placed it on the shelf where the items related to painting were stored. There are many pallets stacked in large quantities and brushes collected in one place. It showed how seriously he devoted his whole heart to this field.

“You're right, miss. But, being honest is an attitude that a painter should have.” He took one color palette and one clean brush, then sat down in front of his canvas paper. “You must be honest that it is the result of your hands, heart, and mind. Not by imitating the work of others. You have to be honest that what you pour into your painting isn't just random scratches and colors. You must be honest with yourself that what you are doing is not an imitation of the world, but the result of what you feel yourself.”

He turned his back to the large window facing outside. The light from the cold morning comes in and gives a backlight-like atmosphere. I couldn't see the man because he was covered in his canvas, but I could hear his brush sweeping around and leaving a trail of paint.

“Painting is not just about creating natural landscapes or objects with the brushes and colors you have. We, the painters, consider painting as sacred as magic. Think of it like a picture— is how you see the world, whereas a painting is what you feel about the world. Colors, techniques, lines, even dots should give a sense to the person who sees them. Your painting is ugly because it has no taste. You look at the sky in blue, then you paint it in blue. You make the moon plain white because that's all the moon is to you. You have to make that sky have a taste. Soft and cold, beautiful and dark, empty and distant. When you get the taste of the painting, that's when you'll find out the painting is good.”

I was silent long enough to hear her words, or maybe because I was waiting for the painting she was doing.

“That painting exists with many functions. To me, the function of painting is to remind us—as a mortal man what the world gives us and what we give to the world. And also as proof for those who ever close my eyes.”

For some reason, there was a tone of sadness at the end of his sentence.

Since mom has lived for a long time, could she have met Mervan? I'm very curious.

“Rememberment into action, action into scratch, scratch into shape, shape into painting, painting back into our memory. Remembered, proud, and poured out. Such is the life of the painters.”

Charley then stopped talking. He kept silent no longer moving his brush, nor did I know what to reply to all his words just now. I kept quiet thinking about nothing. Just be quiet as if waiting for a snowstorm to subside.

Then, Charley stood up and looked at me with the same flat face as before. I tried to guess what he meant, but in vain. His round eyes were like the moon I had plainly drawn as if trying to force me to return his gaze. Was he angry because of my painting or because I underestimated his view? Or because I'm silent, don't respond?

Suddenly, he raised his canvas and handed it to me which made our awkward and empty gaze become distracted. When I saw what he was actually painting, I immediately froze with my eyes glaring.

I saw a face of a girl whose eyes were staring back at me. I could see and feel her skin that was very soft just from the color alloy alone. Her young face is very beautiful with no parts are lacking or excessive— can be said to be perfect. His hair was long straight silver and wore cute hairpins instead of pointy hats. In fact, I can smell her hair just by using my eyes. Then eyes. The most important aspect made me wonder. As I observed the two eyes that had pale purple radiance, I could see pure innocence, extremely strong curiosity, and overreaching confidence. Yep! That girl is me.

I was amazed by my own face painting. Is this really me?

“It was a painting of a magical girl named Nivalis. Through the painting, you can feel what kind of girl she is. Her hair, her skin, her scent, even her nature. This is what is called painting, miss.”

This painting looked different as I looked at the reflection of myself in the mirror. Like seeing another figure, but also seeing a part of myself in the painting. I didn't understand before, about his words and my mother's words being in a storm of obstructions in my heart. Now I understand why my paintings are always considered ugly and cannot be compared to my mother's paintings. Back then, I was too focused on reaching the same point my mother had reached. I struggle to be like my own mother.

I realized achieving the same thing wasn't taking me for the better. Therefore, my mother stopped teaching me who constantly tried to imitate her. He saw that I was not growing. And I understand more and more now when I arrive at this unique city and see a work that I look at in amazement, that I am still swimming in the shallow waters—thinking that I have reached the bottom of the ocean.

The mind of an artist is truly unique.