Tonight I was invited to write at Lost Movements, an art event in West End. We had an hour or so to write a story based on the inspiration from other artists in the space. I singled out the awesome people who were having their bodies painted by artists. This is the result.
Jen came to school today with no paint. She just doesn’t give one single fuck. One of the male teachers even told her to cover up.
She said we’ve been covering ourselves up for hundreds of years. She said it was a statement, time to make a change. Apparently hundreds of years ago it was cool to be orange, and they had this thing called a tan.
Jen didn’t want people to know how rich she was by the quality of her paint or the tint of her contacts. She’s never even been under the knife.
She got called ugly and slut by Tyson, but I thought she looked beautiful. It was scary really seeing someone. It felt so private. No contacts, no paint, just her and her uniform. I felt angry for her. Could I interject?
I’ve always been into the paint. I go to all the best designers. Sometimes I even fork out for a real live artist if there’s a special occasion.
I’ve been painted as a Picasso, the universe, pixels, even the Mona Lisa. The other girls at school look up to me. We go paint shopping together and even do surgery days. I thought it was a channel for self expression. How would people know I was unique and artsy if I wasn’t painted? But after seeing Jen today I think it may be more of a mask. Camouflage even.
I looked around at my friends. They were all looking at Jen like an embarrassing parent at a party. I stood up and crossed the courtyard. I got my water bottle out of my bag, poured it all over my face, and began to scrub with my jumper.
Tyson opened his mouth.
“What?” I snapped. “Never seen a girl’s skin before?”
I think Jen and I are friends now.