A paintbrush telltale. (The Arts).

For years I had entombed the soul of the painter inside me. Along with the anamnesis of a childhood intention of becoming an artist, it died the day my father axed my Fine Arts dream to kindlings

But the shadow of the Muse must have lied on, as it kept me on the path. I remained a silent advocate of art exhibits and art workshops, sustaining my spirit for the arts. It was enough indulgence for me to behold the masterworks of artists alike.

And when my heart found a home in an art gallery in town, something inside me began to regenerate. I felt appeased with the group of artists who became more like a family to me. Their piety to the Cordillera heritage and their fidelity to their arts have inspirited my pride of my own ethnic birthright.

But the renaissance of my spirit never came close enough, till I faced the ghost of apprehension, in the eyes of a blank canvass which stared back at me, that one summer art workshop.

Sponsored by the City government, the Cultural Demo and Painting Workshop was held at the People's Park for three consecutive Sundays. It aimed to promote the Cordillera culture and the preservation of the environment, as well.

I was there for the love of the group and the arts, with the least intention of confronting a past frustration. Somehow, I had to wear a masquerade of conviction to set up their mood for what I brought them to. If I had been transparent then, they would have seen I was just as appalled by the thought of the task. After a hundred years of incarcerating my hands off the brush, to paint again, was letting a dam out of my heart.

Along with the mixing of colors, I started to subliminally amuse myself. Images flashed wildly in my mind, until it settled with one vivid picture of what I was going to paint.

The first stroke came the hardest. I felt the paint brush suspend each time I took it closer to the canvass. Or was it the dread of crossing the borderline of a past setback?

I waited for the master painters to rescue me from the dilemma, but only to be guaranteed by their usual candid smiles and remarks, which did not even hint an inch of help.

In the end, I was to realize their disguised intentions. The space they left me alone with, is where ingenuity was born. Each participant in the workshop was left to his/her own thoughts and imaginings. It was not the hand that really, worked it was the heart.

I have chosen my personal insignia, the moon and stars, as my theme. I added a representation of the ethnic cloth and a graphical drawing of a woman on the moon across my painting.

The entirety of the artwork was distinctively purple, my life color. They say it came close to a flag, and maybe it is. An exclusive flag of triumph against the overrated despair of not becoming and an emblem of liberation from a regret of what could have been. Every object in it was symbolic to me - extracted from the heart.

At the end of the third Sunday, my masterpiece was perfected. So as my soul collected itself again, with the realization that I have not actually lost my touch.

What a fool I have been! Dwelling on the frustration of not becoming a full-pledged artist... when all along, I have always been one in my own right ...and always will be - an artist by heart.