Painting My Writing

I used to draw and paint when I was a young man. I have enjoyed drawing and painting since I was a child; and, when I was in the last two years of high school, I considered the possibility of becoming an artist, being inspired by the masterpieces of Picasso, Ingres, Degas, and Michelangelo. Even though I enrolled in the chemical engineering program at university, I have not lost my taste in art and I sketch something from time to time, always keeping in mind the basics of this art form, which I learnt while a student at the local art school of my city many years ago.

Nowadays, as I have embarked on keeping a blog in English, every time I prepare a new blog post, I have to go through the same process of writing—whose stages remind me of those of drawing and painting—that for me, being a non-native English speaker, may be more difficult than for those who grew up speaking the language of Dickens.

Writing is like drawing and painting in many ways. First, you have to decide what you will draw or paint. This step involves choosing the object or person that will be your model and setting up the scenery that will surround them. This is the composition stage. Then, you need to choose the materials that will best express your artistic point of view, that is, what you intend to say to the people that view your piece of art about the objects in it. If you aim to create a drawing, will you use chalk, charcoal, pencil, or ink? But if you decide to produce a painting, which will be the best choice: oil, watercolour, or acrylic? Perhaps it would be a good idea to mix materials. After that, one begins to sketch the picture. The artist may make as many sketches as they want until they do one after which their finished work will be produced. Many studies might be leaning against the wall of the artist's atelier at the end of this stage. Finally, attention to the details—light and shade, colour tones, brush strokes—is given, making sure every one of them adds to the original sentiment you wanted to express.

In writing, you first decide on a topic. Sometimes the topic brings the genre within itself and sometimes you have to choose the one that best suits what you want to say. The topic in writing is like the model in drawing and painting, and the genre is for a writer what the drawing and painting materials are for the artist. Perhaps a poem may say what you feel about the topic more appropriately, or a novel could depict your thoughts and show your creativity in a better way. In the end it will depend on you, your preferences, and your aptitude for the genre. The next step in the writing process is to jot down all the ideas that come to mind and make the necessary refinements. This stage is similar to the one where an artist makes their sketches. For instance, you may begin with five paragraphs when writing an essay and end up publishing seven paragraphs, or an author can cut a scene from the first chapter of their novel and include it in the third. The editing process ends when the writer is satisfied with the final work (yet some say they could have written something better), which relates to the attention given to the details in the drawing and painting process.

All of the steps described above, however, cannot be taken without the proper foundations in the art form you want to practise. How to hold a pencil and a brush, the way you must give a line its rhythm, the significance of brush strokes, knowing how to represent light and shade, in the drawing and painting case; and, knowing where to put a word in a sentence, the agreement of a subject and its verb, correct spelling and punctuation, among other grammar issues in the writing case; constitute a compulsory education you must acquire and the first step towards mastering the art form in question. In order for you to accomplish that, a lot of practice is required along the path.

When I started studying drawing, I realised I not only had to draw everyday but also study the works of the great masters. Similarly, it is well-known that every would-be author must read many works of literature and write copiously. I do not pretend to be an accomplished artist, nor can I say I am a published author, but I assure you I have learnt that an excellent ground in grammar is the door to creative writing, as mastering classical-style drawing justifies evolving into Cubism.

As far as the writing of an enthusiastic non-native English speaker is concerned, the major emphasis is placed on grammar; so I am aware of its crucial importance for a good command of the lingua franca of today's world. While being taught English as a second language, once a student learns to arrange the words in a sentence, they are already able to communicate with the world by speaking and by writing. As soon as they can write well, they attempt to write a composition and eventually find themselves editing their own works. My experience is no exception.

Reviewing every piece of writing I write is a decisive step I take in enhancing my style. In doing so, correcting my grammar is commonplace. Having nobody as my appointed English teacher, I rely on the best teachers a learner of English writing can look for: English-written novels. I remember I desperately wanted to have a copy of any of the English classics when I was in my last year of high school. My English teacher had required us to read an excerpt from The Call of the Wild, and when I opened it, I was totally fascinated by the articulation of the story and greatly enjoyed it. I decided I had to have, if not the same book in a complete version, another one. It was not until 2011 that I could afford an unabridged copy of a novel in English, and since then I have bought several of such books and have read the majority of them. (In this link you can see a list of the books I have read so far). In reading them, I have been convinced by the authors' mastery that grammar has been an essential component of their education. Fortunately, English grammar became one of my interests when I began to study the language.

Life has exposed me to art, of which, the forms I enjoy the most are drawing, painting, and literature. Despite the fact that I am neither an artist nor an author yet, I testify that there exist necessary foundations that aspirant artists and authors must lay, on which they can safely build their careers. Would Ingres have made such magnificent drawings, so that he is regarded as one of the greatest representatives—the greatest to me—of Neoclassicism, without having studied and practised drawing for years? Would Picasso have produced the astonishingly beautiful post-Cubism expressionist art he created if he had not already mastered figurative art? Would J. R. R. Tolkien have been able to write The Hobbit and the The Lord of the Rings novel series if he had not studied English grammar?

Not just another pair of brown leather shoes

A pair of worn-out shoes was on a stool. Some keys, a few oil paint tubes, and a bible accompanied them and somehow made the scene have a bit of hope. To me they were a highly unusual set of models for painting a still life. But the would-be artist had chosen well, at least for this watercolor class. I was impressed by the realism of his painting and wanted to be able to paint like him very soon; for some reason I wanted to believe I could accomplish that objective within a few months. It was my first day in the watercolor class offered at the art school of Trujillo and was very excited and extremely enthusiastic to learn several techniques.

Those memories came flooding back while I was watching my brown shoes on the floor of my bedroom, which caused a ray of melancholy to cross and stab my chest, recalling that almost the time I have had them is the time I have been jobless. But a few seconds later I realized that not all has been bad news since I got them, though the main characteristic of all this time has been precisely the fact that a three-month hiatus has extended for more than I first imagined.

It was in 2012–I don’t remember the exact month–when I bought them. I had been working for a laboratory and on one of my days off I decided I needed new shoes. After searching and visiting several stores I eventually resolved I would by them at the same store I had purchased my last pair of shoes some years earlier. After all, those shoes were very good and had lasted for years, so the fact that I had no complaints about them favoured the store. I was looking for some walking boots–my original intention was to buy a top-brand pair but because of them being so expensive to me I made up my mind to buy some locally-made boots–and when I saw this brown leather pair I knew I had to have them.

When I tried them on I discovered they were comfortable and I thought they really suited me. They were casual and the sales clerk assured me that I would be able to walk on any ground with them since the sole was made of rubber and so I would never slip if the ground were muddy or the sidewalk were wet, feature of the shoes that made them more appealing to me.

The next day or a few days later I went back to the store to buy other shoes. Not that I wasn't pleased with the pair I had recently acquired, but I did want another pair. I ended up buying a grey pair of walking boots, but with the uppers being of a material softer than leather, resembling that of sports shoes. However, I have not had as many experiences with these shoes as with the first pair. As a matter of fact, I have used the brown ones much more times than the others.

I have loved my brown shoes since I bought them. It is understandable, then, that I was raging inside when, having gone to the main university in my city to buy a book just after three or four days since I had purchased my boots, I tripped up on the kerb of the sidewalk at the entrance to it. Even though I didn't fall, three small scratches were left on the toe of my right shoe. Despite some people told me they were minor marks, I swore they looked nasty and thought my shoe was not going to be the same afterwards. Could this dreadful event signify that something wrong was going to happen if I wore those shoes from then on? Nonsense! Had it presaged the upcoming jobless period of time? Maybe.

I couldn't believe it, definitely not. I had that feeling every time I visualized my shoe having scratches, while I was turning the leaves of a book trying to brush the disturbing thought aside. Eventually, I didn't buy any book and on my way home I strove to protect not only my right shoe but the other one too lest it might suffer the same or a worse fate. When I got home I strode towards my room and sat down on my bed. I desperately wished I had not stumbled on that curb and, staring at both of my brown shoes intently, was consumed with intense grief at the thought of not putting them on anymore.

The next day I was showing off my grey pair of walking boots. They felt more comfortable, although not being as elegant as the brown pair. The next days I used them almost exclusively, changing to my old shoes when necessary. Until one day.

I had returned to the institute where I used to study English, was far a lot content because my teacher was a native speaker and I would practice writing and speaking once again. Obviously, there was a need for me to attend classes appropriately dressed. Fortunately, I had worked for some months and had bought some clothes, which allowed me to be well-groomed. Of course, one's clothing wouldn't be complete without a nice pair of shoes. Luckily, I had two new ones.

Wait a minute! My right brown walking boot had scratches on it! Even worse, the marks were noticeable because they were on the toe. Still, they were new and I truly needed them. So, there was I, showing up in my classroom wearing my brown shoes, feeling my feet very comfortable, forgetting the horrible marks were there, just relishing the sensation of safety and stylishness.

To my surprise, sooner than later I was finally being able to put up with the scratches on my shoe. Even nobody in my class ever mentioned a word about it. It was good. Now I could use them besides the grey pair.

Soon my pair of brown shoes became a particular favourite of mine. I've used these shoes on many occasions, from just walking downtown and attending English classes to visiting the ancient pagan temple Huaca de La Luna, and from going to the beach and traveling to Lima to attending a few Protestant religious services and going to Mass many times.

It was before I went to visit a colleague this year when I decided to buy a tin of shoe polish. However, the tone of brown didn't match my shoes': it was darker and reddish. Even though I liked the shining surface of my boots, it was gained to the detriment of its original lighter tone of brown. Nonetheless, I had finally covered the scratches on the toe of my right shoe. “I will find the correct tone,” I said to myself, hoping it to happen very soon. At least, the main purpose of applying polish to my shoes had been achieved since both toes were the areas mostly covered with it. When I took a look at the shoe, I saw no sign of the scratches. I felt quite satisfied with the result, and if it weren't for the tone of the polish, I would say they looked terrific.

I've been called for a job interview four times since December 2012. I attended the first three of them wearing a dark-blue suit and a pair of black leather lace-up shoes, which is appropriate for such an important occasion. Two of such interviews were carried out in Lima and, as I mentioned before, I travelled to that city wearing my brown shoes. Even though I didn't slip on these boots for any of the job interviews, in a way the fact that they were on a floor somewhere in the same city made their significant presence seem pervasive, which I noticed at once while sitting in front of the interviewer, sensing them still wrapping my feet.

These events were but an inevitable prelude to two objects reclaiming unlimited sovereignty over the decision on when to be used. How could such inanimate things dare to challenge the hierarchy of entities in nature? What's more appalling is that they were manufactured by men, they are artificial! Ergo they should never count.

I had been slouching in one of the armchairs in my house for an hour, taking a nap, when my cell phone rang. I awakened completely to the voice of a young woman requesting a job interview. Another chance of getting a job! I didn't matter they offered to pay less than what I would accept: I needed a job above all. I had to travel to a town near Trujillo where sugar cane is cultivated and sugar is obtained from it. It was likely that I would be required to step into the plant in order to see the machinery and gain an overall impression of the sugar production process. Under these conditions, lace-ups were the least recommended option (because of safety precautions). Therefore, I couldn't attend the interview being in a suit.

On Monday, two weeks ago, I was polishing my brown walking boots as dawn broke, wondering if any of the other interviewees would also be wearing casual shoes, and if my using them may lose me the chance of getting the job. That anxious thought made me seriously consider the possibility of wearing my blue suit, but shortly afterwards I was standing, hands on hips, in front of my fitted wardrobe looking at the clothes hanging from the rail. I ended up picking a smart blue-and-white striped shirt and a pair of dark-blue jeans. To my relief, once in the caller's office, I realized there were other people in casual clothes too, although their shoes were not as casual as mine. I was surprised when my prospective chief was summoned to conduct the interview right there. There was no need for me to be guided around the plant. In the end I should have been wearing my lace-up shoes.

I don't know if the post has been taken yet, but from the number of interviewees they have to assess, I surmise that they plan to come to a decision by October. Anyway, regardless of whether or not I am offered the job, eventually my brown shoes established their presence at the final stage of a job application process, as though they were attempting to connect the two limits of a long and hard road, one that began when I hadn't got a job anymore, a road that extends far away as time passes by, branching off to another city as I look around for the job that eludes me, a road that appears not to have reached its end yet despite the special effort my brown shoes made to hasten its arrival.

I know for certain I will keep these shoes for a long time. They will continue being my constant and faithful companions every time I embark on a new adventure, protecting my feet from stones and pieces of broken glass while I roam the streets of the cities and bumpy tracks where life might lead me to; they will be by my side as I struggle to find the end of the winding road that began two years ago, and will be there when at last I step into a new road, no matter if I am wearing them or they are resting on the floor of my room. But what is most important, they will never be just another pair of brown leather shoes.