she/her
Miranda Pikul
A SHORT STORY
Sometimes, just to feel something, her strange awkward body will contort itself to fit along the edges of a canvas. Stay within frame, she thinks.
Easier said than done.
Sometimes, she’s not in frame at all and the painting becomes something else entirely. When this happens, she’s having a panic attack. But really I am. A contribution to her bad posture. My posture. She suspects her bad posture is obvious after all, considering people tend to adjust themselves while in proximity to her. While viewing her.
Now her skin is burning. My skin. Bright non-descript red paint. Sometimes a Pale Rose Blush mixed with Naples Yellow Light. Her face is powdering into wrinkles. Congesting. Pigment starts staining. And you’ve never felt worse. Wilted. Withering. Building up layers of washes and glazes. She’s just trying to figure it out. Which means there’s hope. She rehearses again and again, a spontaneous depiction of horror. Resilience.
Her unkempt dirty blonde hair—sometimes brown—hangs heavy. Twisted and knotted. She feels everything deeply or not at all. Too sensitive. Or not enough. She wants everything. Or nothing. But really, she just wants to fit in. No longer needing to contort her strange awkward body to fit along the grooves of anything. Maybe one day she’ll stand up straight and find a box worth fitting in. For now, she is a story told over and over again. A story you may recognize yourself in.
The End of the World, 2025.
Oil on canvas, 16 × 20 in.
Wilted, 2025.
Oil on canvas, 18 × 24 in.
Mischief, 2024.
Oil on canvas, 29 × 42 in.
Road Trip, 2024.
Graphite on panel, 12 × 12 in.
Motor Lodge, 2024.
Oil on canvas, 50 × 54 in.