Isabelle Bradford

Panic within the Art

My painting was practically gliding across the smooth white paper. It looked like an advanced figure skating, a solo performer showing off their art. 


The room was practically silent, except for the occasional whisper, asking for feedback or help. The constant low sound of the hard pencils engraving on the paper stopped the possibility of complete silence.


 I found it quite comforting, like the low hum of being in an aeroplane cabin, or the subdued buzz at a busy yet lavish restaurant.


I leant in to take a closer look at my work, as my paintbrush gently left dark ink upon the board. If I looked closely enough, I could see the watery ink pass through the miniscule canals of the paper, looking like an advanced network of rivers.  


I quickly became more careless with my movements, taking less attention to what I was creating. The once exact, detailed scene had developed into a sloppy catastrophe. 


I felt my heart rate rapidly increase and palms become sweaty as I began to glance around the room.


 Almost as if I was being ridiculed by nature, strong beams of light flooded through the large square windows, acting as a spotlight upon the other art pieces in the room. A feeling of panic rushes through my already scared body as I realise the dreadful art teacher will soon see my horrid ‘art’ piece. 


How did I let that happen? How did I manage to ruin such a pretty, ideal scene, and turn it into a horror movie set up. My mind searched for a possible fix. 


Should I restart? Or, maybe throw it away and forget I was even painting it. It was getting silly until it finally hit me.


Using white paint would easily cover up my mistakes. It was the perfect plan, I felt sure of myself once again, finally. 


It wasn't difficult to find the paint. The tall walls of the art classroom were lined with various bits and bobs, art supplies that had accumulated over the years. There was a wide range of paint I could’ve chosen from, but as my time was quickly running out, I decided on the first bottle I saw labelled as ‘White Acrylic Sandwich’. It was crusty around the edges, with leftover paint engulfing the tube at the top. It would work. 


I sat back down at my desk, and took a deep breath in. It was helpful for a split second until I heard the teacher's loud voice behind me, her strong perfume intoxicating my space. I could smell the artificial florals and sweet sugar.


I dipped my heavy paintbrush into my water pot, which I had been previously using. The once clear water had evolved into a marshy brown colour, more dense and less flowing.  I slowly lifted the paintbrush up the canvas, hoping for the best. 


I began to try and salvage my painting, but it escalated from a catastrophe to an utter abomination. The white, pure paint had ruined the dirty paint water, and produced a dark brown pigment. I couldn't  believe it. 


My painting wouldn't be able to be sold as a new innovative modern art piece, or even a painting of some sort of gory, repulsive item. I felt devastated as the disgusting ink dried like a permanent tattoo, staining the paper. 


Honestly, I thought I had the solution, but I had done nothing but put myself in a worse position.


I hear my teacher's voice approaching behind me, becoming increasingly threatening over time. An instinctive adrenaline rush flowed through my body, and I felt the need to run away. I couldn't  even bear imagining confronting my art teacher. 


I quickly stand up and snatch my painting from the desk. My eyes dart across the room, eagerly searching for the closest place of disposal. 


I dunk the monstrosity in the big black bin, which was filled to the brim of various art supplies. I put as much pressure as I can on the art, making sure it isn't visible from above, which would diminish my chances of getting away with this. 


I try to act calm and collected as I stroll back to my desk, hoping it looked as though I didn't have a care in the world. 


I didn't realise I was holding my breath, but as the devilish art teacher brushes past the closely packed desks, completely ignoring me, I let it out. 


I had managed to dodge a bullet, but at what cost? I had somehow managed to completely deface my work of art in five minutes.


Now that must take some form of talent.



Envoyé: 11:52 Tue, 14 March 2023 by : Isabelle Bradford age : 15