Your Story

TITLE: Deconstructed

The canvas felt…small. Insufficient. It wasn’t about the size, though. It was about containing it. The feeling. A fractured energy, a kaleidoscope of anxieties and fleeting joys. I’d started with a portrait, a simple attempt to capture the curve of a cheekbone, the light in an eye. But it quickly devolved.

I grabbed the teal first, slashing it across the face, not to hide her, but to augment her. Then the orange, a bold, aggressive counterpoint. It felt…right. Like peeling back layers, revealing the scaffolding beneath the skin. The black came next, sharp angles, geometric intrusions. It wasn’t about destruction, not exactly. It was about exposing the underlying structure, the blueprints of emotion.

I lost track of time. Hours blurred into a frenzy of color and form. Text fragments, ripped from old magazines, became part of the composition, whispers of forgotten narratives. Lines, squares, circles – they weren’t random. They were echoes of thoughts, anxieties, the constant hum of the world pressing in.

Looking at the finished piece now, it’s unsettling. It’s me. Not a literal representation, but a deconstruction. The woman’s face is still there, but fragmented, overlaid, almost lost within the chaos. It’s a portrait of a mind overwhelmed, a soul dissected and reassembled.

It’s messy. It’s jarring. It’s…honest. And for the first time in a long time, I feel a strange sense of peace. The chaos is contained, at least for now, within the frame. It’s out of my head, and onto the canvas.