Canvas
Fractured
Original 40 × 50 cm painting on canvas, made with acrylic paint, ink, pencils, markers, and newspaper collage. The work is unframed and features a hole in the canvas as part of the artwork. A paintbrush is included and can be placed in or taken out.
Description
I wasn’t planning to make anything. The canvas was just a place for my notes—reminders like “take the car to service” (I never did) and “build a molbert” (I didn’t; my mom bought it instead). But then I finally got my hands on spray cans, and obviously, I had to test them. So I did—right on that canvas, reading my forgotten notes while spraying over them.
Within minutes, my entire apartment smelled like a chemical warfare experiment—spray paint mixing with fresh wall paint. Because, in my infinite wisdom, I had decided to repaint my walls that same day. It was late. I was frustrated. Too much happening at once. The walls were unfinished. There was paint everywhere. And the mess? Tortilla leftovers on the table, a banana chilling on the floor, newspapers scattered around, as if I thought they’d protect the floor. Spoiler: they didn’t. The floor was covered in paint anyway.
I didn’t know where to start.
Maybe the kitchen? Okay, let’s put the food away. But where? I needed more containers. I didn’t have containers.
Maybe I should just finish painting the walls? Just a few spots left. I picked up the paintbrush. This is it, I will finish it.
But a new obstacle appeared—I needed to remove the cabinet doors to paint properly. But it was late.
So I stood in the middle of my disaster-zone kitchen, staring at the chaos. Then I saw the canvas.
And I thought—screw it, I’ll paint.
I rewarded myself with coffee and a piece of chocolate, because obviously, I’d earned it… for standing. Then I started painting. I grabbed newspapers from the floor, now fully covered in color, and stuck them onto the canvas. I painted. I took the spray and sprayed some more. I hated it. I smeared the paint. I scraped it off. I smeared it again.
At some point, I tasted paint in my mouth. Why? No idea. But it was bitter, disgusting, and somehow, it fit the moment perfectly.
Paint covered my hands. I pressed my palms against the canvas. My face got smeared in paint. I hated what I saw. I threw my paintbrush at the canvas, then immediately panicked—oh no, did it hit my bed?!
I turned to my bed. A mess, but at least paint-free. Then I looked at the canvas. The brush had pierced through, lodged in the painting.
I guess it was finished. My brush’s first and last masterpiece.
And somehow, I hated every second of it—the mess, the frustration, the colors, the chaos inside me and around me. But at the same time, I felt alive. I was in the moment. I wasn’t thinking about anything else. And that’s the feeling I chase.
Within minutes, my entire apartment smelled like a chemical warfare experiment—spray paint mixing with fresh wall paint. Because, in my infinite wisdom, I had decided to repaint my walls that same day. It was late. I was frustrated. Too much happening at once. The walls were unfinished. There was paint everywhere. And the mess? Tortilla leftovers on the table, a banana chilling on the floor, newspapers scattered around, as if I thought they’d protect the floor. Spoiler: they didn’t. The floor was covered in paint anyway.
I didn’t know where to start.
Maybe the kitchen? Okay, let’s put the food away. But where? I needed more containers. I didn’t have containers.
Maybe I should just finish painting the walls? Just a few spots left. I picked up the paintbrush. This is it, I will finish it.
But a new obstacle appeared—I needed to remove the cabinet doors to paint properly. But it was late.
So I stood in the middle of my disaster-zone kitchen, staring at the chaos. Then I saw the canvas.
And I thought—screw it, I’ll paint.
I rewarded myself with coffee and a piece of chocolate, because obviously, I’d earned it… for standing. Then I started painting. I grabbed newspapers from the floor, now fully covered in color, and stuck them onto the canvas. I painted. I took the spray and sprayed some more. I hated it. I smeared the paint. I scraped it off. I smeared it again.
At some point, I tasted paint in my mouth. Why? No idea. But it was bitter, disgusting, and somehow, it fit the moment perfectly.
Paint covered my hands. I pressed my palms against the canvas. My face got smeared in paint. I hated what I saw. I threw my paintbrush at the canvas, then immediately panicked—oh no, did it hit my bed?!
I turned to my bed. A mess, but at least paint-free. Then I looked at the canvas. The brush had pierced through, lodged in the painting.
I guess it was finished. My brush’s first and last masterpiece.
And somehow, I hated every second of it—the mess, the frustration, the colors, the chaos inside me and around me. But at the same time, I felt alive. I was in the moment. I wasn’t thinking about anything else. And that’s the feeling I chase.