Viva logo

My Mind An Artist, My body The Canvas

Our artist within

By Aathavi ThangesPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 3 min read
Top Story - February 2022
31
Aesthetics of the female body by Marina Klimkina

Growing up, I’d revel in all the mysterious ways to make myself beautiful. Straightening my hair, learning how to use eyeliner, plumping my lips, the best overnight cure for a pimple. What outfits were trendy? What made me look amazing? Anything! The world was my oyster when it came to beauty.

I always believed that beauty was never how people looked, it was how they chose to show it. And I was dedicated to showing it off in the best way possible.

My hair straightener was the first paint on my palette of beauty. Along came the eyeliner, better outfits, concealer. I was painting the perfect picture every time I got ready in front of the mirror.

Every morning, I’d wake up as a ball of clay and sculpt myself into whatever I thought was beautiful. The girl in front of the mirror was my canvas after all, and I never left a painting unfinished.

This was the body that I was born with. This skin? These hips? My under-developed height? All my paint brushes were not of my own choosing, they were given to me. Going through puberty was like being in hell’s kitchen and only being allowed an onion and a bell pepper to make a 5-course meal. But I know damn well, I eat heavy and I’m always hungry for more.

I began to paint more than just my body. Suddenly, my entire life was a canvas to be painted on, and the world was filled with infinite shades of paint. With the world and all its belongings, I’d create my most magnificent sculpture yet. I’d dedicate my life to gathering the best brushes, seeing what fit best on the canvas of me.

But no more brushes or shades of paint would suffice my craving for beauty. I was a perfectionist with my art, and I had a laser vision for blemish. The more I painted, the weaker I got. The more hopeless I was about being able to fix myself. I’d been given a lifetime to perfect the canvas that was me, but here I was, two decades of ruin. Two decades of long and tedious work to just end up being…not enough? And like any good artist, when your work begins to crumble, you just have to start again from scratch.

Photo by iStock.com/ChamilleWhite

We walk around as canvases, some half-painted or bruised, others painted black. It took me a while to care for my canvas, to realise that it could be painted on. I was afraid I’d let my canvas whither, its frames crack. A large tear right in the middle, with a knife instead of a brush. It would be too easy, our canvases came weak. It’d take layers of paint to be beautiful, I thought. But when I finally found the true artist inside, one that was swayed less by the world, more by her heart, she only needed one brush and one shade of paint. It was my shade, the one that reflected my spirit and the one that fixed my body, the canvas.

I believe we all have an artist inside of us. We have the magical ability to see what makes us beautiful, even if we don’t believe them in ourselves. We see it in others, in the world. We can quiet the voices that tell us who we are, but we should much rather embrace them, let them speak through our hearts and reveal themselves through the art of our bodies. Our bodies are our canvases, and it’d be a shame not to flaunt them.

Although it may take a long time to see the potential of our blank canvases, to heal the cracks and renew our structure, it is worth the wait to see what our artists have in store.

beauty
31

About the Creator

Aathavi Thanges

Disposing my thoughts one page at a time

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.