ArtWrite 10/23: Edie Fake
Updated: Dec 4, 2020
I realized last year that childhood Sundays weren’t ever as fun as I remembered them being. I blockaded myself into the corner of my room using the barrier of my toy chest, and I watercolored butterflies on my eggshell wall. My cousin Toby gifted me the paint, and I hid in that corner each Sunday morning crafting a world that grew from the floor upward. I didn’t ever believe in the world I created on that wall, though - perhaps because the butterflies’ wings looked crooked to me, or I felt that their rainbow colors seemed too imaginary. I now wish I suspended my imagination and trusted that butterflied world since when I crawled out of my hideaway, I hadn’t at all escaped from the world that lay beyond my bedroom doors. I always felt that Toby believed in the fabricated worlds he observed, the ones born from scrappy collages or sketched figures, from loose-ended quilts or fragile statues. I could read his credence by the way his eyes lingered on the page, or by how the cadence of his voice mellowed while he was entranced. The morning he brought me the watercolor set, he showed me on his blackberry phone a painting he’d recently found. He said it reminded him of the Grand Budapest Hotel, though I didn’t know yet what that meant. He said he was reminded of the hotel through the painting’s geometric tilt, its symmetric orange windows, its grandiose yet befitting entrance, and its mid-century font. It seemed to me that the building in the painting so vigorously desired to camouflage into itself, and I didn’t yet understand how this Grand Budapest Hotel could try and do the same. At Sunday’s nightfall I was told to bathe, so I slipped under the surface of my bathwater only to discover a world I did accept as true. With shut eyes and sealed lips, I blew bubbles from my nose and heard them as schools of fish swimming alongside me. I believed in the lazy sea turtles and pregnant seahorses, in the coral that lay ten feet under and the octopuses finding their way home. It was at the memory of great white sharks that I would pierce through the surface of the water to find that my Sunday imagination had shattered away.