Gemotions

The air in the art studio was thick with the scent of turpentine and oil paints. She stood before a canvas, the brush frozen in her hand. The news came in a string of messages on his phone. The vibrant colors she usually used seemed dull and lifeless. The world outside, the vibrant colors of which she always tried to capture, now felt muted.

She’d always seen herself as strong, independent. But now, she felt the fragility of glass. She lowered the brush. She felt a numbness, a detachment from everything she had always loved.

She had been working on a portrait of him. She stared at it, the unfinished face staring back. She stared at the canvas, tears gathering in her eyes. What was the point of art? What was the point of anything?