I always wanted to be Matisse but I thought I lacked the skill. My paintings were often done in words; writing is what I do. Pen is my paintbrush. Or so it was until the summer in 2005 when I got very ill. The doctor told me I needed to move to a warmer climate. Northern air was destroying my lungs. “You have no time, you have to move today, tomorrow may be too late”, he said. With death lurking behind my left shoulder I packed my bag and took a flight to the South of France. I settled in a house in Provence. I would sit in the garden among the flowers, birds serenaded me with their songs. There I started painting, shyly at first afraid that all the famous painters from centuries ago would not approve. Gradually I eased into it. I didn’t drow, I sang with the paintbrush. Joining the birds I knew my dream has blossomed into paintings.
© Iva Beranek (Dublin, 29th September 2015)
Photo by © Graham Lawrence
[This post is inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers]
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