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Chapters (67)
  1. Big Boned
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. One Month Later
  60. Acknowledgments
  61. About the Author
  62. Copyright
  63. About the Publisher
  64. Backad 1
  65. Backad 2
  66. Backad 3
  67. Backad 4

I squeezed the nozzle and the paint sprayed out, a jet of color into the night. I lowered it to the ground and began. It felt instinctive. Like I’d done this a million times before. The painting flowed through me like the tide, as if I had no control over any of it. It was coming from somewhere else and I was just a conductor tapping into some far-off collective artistic consciousness. The shapes and pictures flowed down my arm, into my hand, and out of the can. I felt this strange combination of being far away from my body but more connected to the world around me at the same time. Connected to all the tiny minutiae: the ant running across the pavement, the small breeze making the leaf move across the street. I was seeing everything all at once, the tiny dots and pieces that make everything up, as well as the bigger picture. Zoomed in and out at the same time as the painting rushed out of me, as I used a combination of spray cans and big brushes with wild abandoned strokes. This was nothing like the art I usually did, but despite that it just tumbled out of me and fell onto the ground. Out of the hole, into the crack, all the way across the road, up the garbage can on the other side. And I felt, I felt . . .

Alive.

In that moment, dirty and paint-stained, on my hands and knees on the side of the road in the middle of the night, I felt more connected to something greater than myself than I’d ever felt before. I felt imbued with a kind of purpose that I didn’t even know I had. Even if I didn’t quite understand what that purpose was exactly, I could feel that what I was doing was important and that it meant something.

26

I tried to cover my yawn in class, but I was exhausted. After painting, I’d gotten home when the sun was almost up, and then collapsed into bed. I’d thought I could sleep late Sunday morning, but an alarm had gone off, reminding me that I needed to finish my self-portrait for Blackwell. I’d flown out of bed and spent all day painting. I’d stared at my half-completed self-portrait for hours first, not knowing what to do with it, or how to complete it. I didn’t have time to paint the rest of my body, nor did I want to. My perfectly painted face hovered in the middle of the white canvas like it was attached to an invisible body. It looked incomplete, but I was running out of time, so I’d done a quick patch job to make it look like the body was obscured by shadows. I’d stayed awake all night finishing it and had woken up early to post it.