Published by: Airene Nicole Q. Pamintuan
Date Published: March 15, 2022
Time Published: 12:43 PM
Category: Prose
Theme: Painter
Synopsis: Seventeenth-century, women struggled to fight against oppression when it comes to the industry ruled by men, but not her. She fought in a way spectators would be enticed by her weapon. A significant armament with meaning as beautiful as life itself.
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Life could give us hurdles we didn’t want, yet what could we do other than accept it? Some people dwell and some didn’t. They loved, pushing through the big walls.
Like them, I wanted to view my life as something beautiful enough to feel the solitude ambiance, the stunning dawn, and the worth of living in a world that was made to be imperfect.
I sat beneath the luscious tree, staring at the idyll village I grew up in. The grass was damp as the rain only stopped yesterday. The petrichor swiveled around.
With a pen and paper, I let my hand flow. Each line drawn resonated the serenity in my heart.
The villagers happily roamed the stone road heading somewhere. Children played with each other, jumping through the wooden fences. Billy, the shepherd I knew since we were nothing but little kids, ran around chasing the sheep that escaped their farm. It was quite funny as the chickens followed him. What a beautiful chaos early in the morning.
“There you are,” said the little girl whose hair burned as the sun hit. “Oh, dear Anne.” I smiled at her, feigning surprise so her feelings would not be hurt. She loved playing pranks to the point that we had to keep it on our watch.
“There are visitors who came looking for you,” she said as I stood up. “Who?” I asked. “Men,” she replied. “From the looks of it, they are esteemed men.” I wasted no time the moment I heard what she added.
As I ran down the hill, I greeted our neighbors who started their means of living. It mattered not that I raised the hem of my skirt to run easily.
Upon arriving at the porch of our small and cozy abode, I fixed my hair and dress to look presentable. “You’re here,” my mother greeted, standing up from her seat. I focused on the men who also stood up. “Fiorentino…?” One of them asked. “Yes,” I replied.
The look of confusion plastered on their faces. “You are monsieur Fiorentino?”
“Monsieur?”
They exchanged looks. “I never said that I was a man,” I said once more. “And you never said that you are a woman,” the man older than the other with a white trimmed beard said. “Then, we shall take out leave.” Right after they said those garbage of words, they went ahead towards the door. “What—” I was left astounded by them. Not a chance. I had waited for this moment since the day I first handled a painting myself. I would not let this chance slip away.
As I was following them, the young one stopped to ask me again. “Perhaps…it is actually your father?” I grunted. “No! I am Fiorentino!” I took a deep breath. God, the world we live in indeed. I heard them sigh as if I was a hindrance to their busy lives.
“I plead to you, young lady. Do not waste our time any longer.”
“Waste your time?” Unbelievable. How did I even waste their oh-so-precious time?! “Why yes!. It is your fault that a misunderstanding arise! You did not state that you are a woman!” The old man yelled. I could not fathom what these men are implying. “And if I did?” I stood straight.
“If I did say that I was a woman, would you have come?” They fell silent. It was obvious. The reason why they were leaving was because of me…a woman. “I can prove to you that I was the one who made that.” If only I was born as a man, only then they would not have thought that I was a waste of every tick of the clock. In fact, they would have chased me instead.
“No. That painting…” the man trailed off. “That painting is a special one. There is no way in every possibility that it as you who painted it.”
“If only you stop spouting that misogynistic statement and trash of a mind you have, then you would see from someone else’s point of view.”
I could not say that. But I did want to punch the face of these esteemed men. For free. “That painting—ah! Bellisimo!” He gestured his hands upward, closing his eyes as if he could see the painting he praised so much. “The feelings! The emotions! Harmony!” Yes…and I was the painter.
He looked at me again after his dramatic reminiscent. A snicker came out of him. “A woman like you are is never fit to be the painter of such a wonderful painting.” And they left. I knew I had to do everything myself.
Here I was, standing outside the magnificent museum with nothing but a sufficient amount of coins for my food and travels. A contest, a chance. An opportunity to showcase our talents! I wanted to marvel at the sculptures and paintings inside but the contest would start any moment.
There we were. I sat among the men lined up in front of a big blank canvas while dressed as a man. There were women in the spectators but none as a contestant. I felt my hands run cold, but I would not falter. I shall show them. I shall prove to them that a woman was worth more than a man.
With that said, the colors started flying with each flick of our wrists. The beauty hidden was in our visions was unleashed. It was worth it. Now they look above the podium as I stood up straight, full of pride I worked hard to get. Truly…a woman should not back down just because she was a woman.
“Artemivia Fiorentino. The woman you’ll remember for centuries. She changed her life to begin a flourishing one. Class, this is the history of the very first woman painter who fights against all odds.”
Indeed, she showed us the colors of life as she told us the story in her painting. “La Dolce Vita.”
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