Brooke Forbes

A woman is painting herself again.

She is sitting in her chair, hand stretched to the canvas, connecting artistry to medium.

She is choosing her colour pallet, her lights, her darks, her attempts to mimic the ever-shing essence of being.

Can she capture the turn of her hips when she wants to dance?

Can she capture the light flickering in the corner of her eyes when she laughs?

Can she capture her finger tips running across a grand piano?

The canvas contains itself. Its fibres will only hold so much motion before they bend and snap.

She turns to textures –

Should it be thick like blood or water thin? Smooth like a river on a calm day? Or carry the thickness of waves in a storm, full of fast-paced motion.

But the brush slips, momentarily, and all is lost for a second, falling, twirling towards the floor with a grand thud.

And then she sees it – green eyes, black hair, a generous figure shaped to perfection – and she knows it is done.