Purple

Notes: “Purple” is a creative nonfiction essay written for AP English. The assignment was to write about an event that has defined who we are.  Though my event was fairly recent, the essay is still quite personal.  This story is about my art, the music I listen to, and my friendship, and how all those elements combined in a healing process.

*****

I am in high school Art 2, not so very long ago. The class is delving into colored pencil, a medium I love, and I am busy adding color to a toucan in the jungle. Cool tones of green contrast nicely with the vivid gold and scarlet of his beak, and I decide to leave the background blurry to add to the focus.

As I block out dark blobs, I feel a presence behind me. The art teacher tilts his head and frowns a little, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Because I know what is coming, I pull out one earbud and start counting silently. Sure enough, I do not even reach ten before he comments, “It needs more purple.”

This statement does not surprise me; the art teacher sees purple in every picture. “I know,” I acknowledge respectfully, “I’m still working on it.” He nods, apparently satisfied, and moves on to another student as I replace the earbud and return to my work. Despite my words, however, I have no intention of using purple in my picture. Purple is too warm and would ruin the effect I have in mind.

The song I am listening to comes to a close, momentarily distracting me, and I idly wish for the shuffle feature to pick something good. The music starts with a light, almost metallic plucking of strings, and I realize by some freak of chance that I am listening to “Sakura Biyori”. Aside from being the ending theme of the popular anime Bleach, the song also has a deeper meaning for me. My best friend put it on my mp3 player the night Ridgeville closed, so it always produces a welling-up of sorrow in me.

My mind reaches back as the emotive chorus swells. I remember the first time we met: she saw me sitting by myself at lunch, plopped down next to me and offered me chocolate pocky out of a red box as bright as her personality. I recall so easily our inside jokes, the drama that is now so unimportant, the things we debated over lunch. And suddenly, though nearly two years have passed, I am struck very keenly with the knowledge that I will never have that chance again. We will never sit in chapel together, never slog through another math class, never hide each other’s shorts in the locker room. Those days are gone, and nothing will ever bring them back.

The bell rings, two minutes early as always, and I am just as stunned as the art teacher to discover I am weeping.

*****

When I perch on my stool the next day, I deliberately go back to the same song. I know little of the translation, but what I do know seems oddly pertinent. The young woman who sings lost her best friend in the spring, when the cherry trees bloom. Rather than wallowing in grief, she lets the sakura biyori, the cherry-blossom weather, remind her of all the good times they shared.

Although music is what speaks to my soul, I cannot express my emotions in this medium. I have tried to write both poetry and music and have failed miserably every time. Instead, I pour my soul onto paper and let my artwork express my feelings.

The background is a mixture of colors: navy blue for cool depth, brown for earthy evenness, black for velvety darkness, and green for the foliage. Every two or three layers, however, I add purple, just enough to make a difference. I build up the color, layer upon layer upon layer. Then, when I am satisfied, I pick up my colorless blender and burnish the entire picture to perfection. When I am done, my artwork is silky-smooth and polished, almost like oil pastel.

And it is odd; by the time I have completed the picture, I have lost some of my memories. I can no longer remember the cruelty and bitter words that pervaded so much of my school experience. All that remain, pleasantly bittersweet, are the sakura biyori memories.

*****

I finish the picture a few days later. The art teacher compliments me on my work – a rare event. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I think this is your best work so far. You did an excellent job of adding the purple.”

From far away, the drawing is nearly photorealistic. Up close, though, an observer can still distinguish individual colors, much the same way brushstrokes are visible in a painting. The purple is there – nearly hidden beneath blue and green and brown, but still ever so slightly noticeable. The parallels between my art and friendship strike me: the multiple layers, the subtle tricks that make it shine, the way one thing blends into another to form a seamless whole.

I smile to myself. It seems extremely appropriate that purple, which is often the color of grief or mourning, can also be used as the color to represent love.