Ira's Painting
A small cozy piece about my autistic emby wolf doing some painting. I spend a lot of my time yearning to depict my own experience of autism but frequently get paranoid that people won't like it. But I heard good feedback on this piece, so I've decided to share it onwards~
Thumbnail from a picture commissioned of Ira by HeartCollar
The air is sweet with the tweeting of birds and the soft, friendly rustle of grass.
In the lushous garden, Ira Greene sits before an easel and a large canvass. They sit dressed in their sparkling pink mankini and fluffy pink legwarmers. The wolf muses at the canvas, before daubing a broad paintbrush into some water to clean it, then picking one of the many shades of pink paint on their pallet and beginning to adorn the canvass. The first pink is a pale, soft colour, wedded closer to the blue than the red. Ira’s paw makes soft, long and flowing strokes on the canvass, the marrying of brush to material joining the birdsong and leaving the wolf’s ears pinned back and tail swishing in bliss.
Ira was aware, and cultivating intentionally, a lack of forethought into this composition. Their gut suggested a broad, blueish pink base and they made no attempt to critique it.
With this base layer completed, some of the paint running a little more than was intended, Ira washed the brush and reached for another.
On reaching for a thicker brush, the wolf hesitated, finding a woodlouse, a pillbug, resting upon it’s tip.
“Excuse me.” The wolf whispered, and, in some twitch of magic, the vulnerable insect pattered down the brush to the rim of the jar and stepped away.
“Thank you.” Ira added, gently collecting the brush and observing that the insect had turned to observe the creative process.
This was the most… vulnerable, part of creation. After beginning, before completion. The acrobat has left the tightrope bravely, and must see if they land upon it or fall short of it.
With this thicker brush, Ira got to indulge in their favourite, the vivid, pealescent hot pink. Matching of their clothing, that most transgressive of colours. They dip the brush tip within it, lift it, and gently swirl it to capture all the strands, like one might pasta on a fork. Ira’s eyes gaze longingly at the colour amassed on the tip. A bizarre wedding of peaceful reflection of self and full-throttle excitement of creation. Understanding the feelings could often be painful. But feeling them alone, that was delightful.
Ira brought this richer colour to the canvass and began to paint again. Heavier streaks, paint on paint, a little messy, but there’s ample in beauty in mess. A shivering joy that Ira could just paint everything in this most vibrant of pinks; their house, their driveway, their nails, their eyelashes, their jockstraps, anything. But they relented, only because they knew that such a vibrant pink looked the more pretty when paired with other shades.
Once it was complete, Ira washed the brush and placed it neatly back in their collection, the woodlouse observing the wet bristles, but deeming that it was better to let them dry.
Ira took now their last brush, a thin and hard-tipped item, and picked their third colour. This, close to an inky purple, dark and rich. Ira put very little on the tip of their brush and lent forward, very carefully adding the dark accents to the piece. Small, precise lines. Thin. Sometimes long, sometimes short. Sometimes at sharp angles, sometimes on curves.
The wolf resisted using too much, for reasons known only to their gut. They leant over and washed the last brush, placing it down in the pot.
“That’s beautiful!”
Ira looked over their shoulders to see Wendell, the marble fox, stood gazing at the canvas, clad in just their tiny pair of denim shorts. The fox turned his head to Ira and smiled. “What is it?”
The wolf turned back to the painting and pondered. “I don’t know.” They said. “But, whatever it is, it’s a very good likeness of me.”