12 Jun 2025

Colors of Memory by Diana Kohut

The scent of turpentine and old oil paint,

usually a comforting embrace, now only amplified the dull throb behind my eyes. Third year at art school was no joke. Deadlines loomed like hungry spectres, and my canvas remained stubbornly blank, pristine, and threatening, like a fresh winter snow promising long, cold months. I sat in my studio, surrounded by half-finished sketches and unread textbooks, but my mind kept drifting to one person: Grandma Аnna. 

She’d been in the hospital for a week now, and every call from my mom about her condition sent a fresh wave of guilt through me. Grandma, who'd given me my first set of watercolours, who'd sat for hours beside me while I drew clumsy suns, who always said, "Annyunya, your hands were made for beauty." It was her, not any art teacher, who had truly ignited this spark within me. And here I was, trapped in these four walls that were supposed to be my sanctuary, unable to draw a single coherent line. My passion, once so vivid, felt as dim as her eyes had seemed lately.

I tried. I gripped a brush, dipped it into a puddle of blue paint, feeling the cold, thick liquid. But my hand wouldn't obey. Each stroke felt forced, lifeless, as if I were painting a wall, not creating something. I sighed, letting the brush clatter to the floor. All this “creativity” for a grade. Did I even remember what it felt like to paint just for the sake of it, for the sheer joy? 

The next day, I finally made the trip to see Grandma. The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptics, not Grandma's dried herbs. She lay in the bed, so small, so frail, as if woven from gossamer. Her skin was almost translucent, but when I took her hand, it still felt warm, though weathered by age.

"Annyunya, you came," she whispered, her voice like autumn leaves rustling faintly underfoot. "How's your painting?"

I felt a pang of shame. "It's fine, Grandma. Just... a lot of work."

She squeezed my palm gently. "Do you remember that old paintbrush of mine? The wooden one? It was my grandfather's; he painted too. I gave it to you when you were just a little girl."

I nodded. I remembered. That brush wasn't just a tool; it was a talisman. It lay in a box on my desk, forgotten among my new, professional brushes.

"Bring it to me sometime," she asked, and a flicker, almost a spark, appeared in her eyes. "I want to hold it."

Back home, I immediately sought out that worn, wooden box. Inside, amidst dried watercolour tubes and old childhood drawings, it lay – the very same paintbrush. Its handle was polished smooth by years of use, even before I received it. Its bristles were soft but still held their shape. I felt a forgotten warmth spread through me. This brush was imbued with history, steeped in love.

I didn't know what to paint, but I knew for whom. Not for a professor, not for a grade, but for her. For Grandma Lena. I pulled out a clean, small canvas. It was hard at first; my hand trembled again, but this time from a different emotion – not fear, but desire. I dipped the old brush into yellow paint. I began to paint a sunflower – her favourite flower, a symbol of summer and life.

Each stroke, made with that old brush, felt lighter than the last. I watched the petals come alive, the shadows deepen, the seeds in the center gain volume. It wasn't an obligation anymore. It was breathing. I felt the memory of her smile, her guidance, her boundless faith in me flow through the brush onto the canvas. I added blue, remembering the color of the sky in her village, and green, evoking the grass where we used to sit as she told me stories.

I worked late into the night, oblivious to time. When the last stroke was complete, I felt not exhaustion, but a strange, calming warmth spreading through my chest. The sunflower on the canvas was bright, vibrant, full of energy. It wasn't just a painting; it was an embodiment of my love, my memories, my gratitude.

The next morning, I brought it to Grandma. Her eyes widened when she saw the canvas. She stretched out a trembling hand and touched the image. A faint, but genuine, smile appeared on her face.

"Annyunya," she whispered, and there was no weakness in her voice, only pure joy, "It's... it's alive."

In that moment, I understood. My love for art hadn't disappeared. It had simply gotten lost under pressure, fear, and guilt. But it was there, deep inside, connected by the same thread as my love for Grandma. This flower, blooming on the canvas, wasn't just a picture. It was proof that love, in all its forms – whether familial or a passion for creation – can bring life, even when everything else seems to fade. Sometimes, to find yourself, you just need to return to your roots, to what first ignited the fire in your heart.




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