simplicity

Something occurred to me today, and it was this; beautiful things are often extremely simple. It's not a new realisation by any means, and it's probably not even remotely interesting to many people... But the more I think about it, the more I realise how true it is.

The art room at my high school. That's something beautiful.

The floor is chapped linoleum, covered in splatters of acrylic paint and scuff marks from peoples shoes. The tables and stools are scratched, chipped, and more often than not they creak like hell when you lean/sit on them. Muddy streaks cover the draughty windows, and the sinks are always clogged with disgusting gunk that's probably a mixture of drawing ink, PVA glue, paint, and god only knows what else. There's two store rooms; ones full of A1 sheets of card that are almost always arranged in a precarious looking pile atop an old dented filing cabinet (which is stuffed with pastels, fine liners, charcoal and graphite), and the other is chock-a-block with peoples artwork, very much like a cave of treasure.

It's messy. It's almost always noisy. Every time I go in there, I come out with at least one new splatter of paint on my uniform (sorry, Mum).

But, to me, it's beautiful. It provides an escape for me like nowhere else. I can go in there, grab whatever I want, and do whatever I want. If I spill bright yellow acrylic on the table, so what? The teacher barely bats an eyelash. My friend throws a pot of glue at me, misses, and ends up splattering the cupboards with PVA...so what? The teacher doesn't give a shit, she just carries on searching the draws behind her desk for a roll of masking tape.

Trust the mess. That's her motto.

My Nan's garage. That's something beautiful.

During the winter there's sacks of potatoes that my Granddad has grown lined up against the wall, under a lopsided shelf brimming with paint pots and other random bits and bobs. There's three freezers; yes, three. Two stood against the same wall as the potatoes and another against the back wall. The floor is dirty and the air smells musty, but it's cold and crisp. Fresh. At Christmas, Halloween or bonfire night, when everyone is crowded inside the living room, I sneak out and sit cross legged in the garage. Just to breathe. There's a trap door on the ceiling that leads up into what used to be my Mum's room in the attic. My Granddad built it, so she could get out if there was a fire.

I can breathe there. I can look at the mundane things around me, draw patterns in the dust on the window ledge. I can sit with my eyes closed and feel the cold seep through into my skin.

It feels as though that garage emanates a sort of calm feeling. Zen. It's peaceful.

The field across the road from my house. That's something beautiful.

It comes alive in the summer, when the sun shines across it. The grass shimmers in the wind, turning silver and undulating like the sea.

The smiles on my best friends faces when I say something stupid. They're something beautiful.
The sharp crunch of an apple when I first bite into it. That's something beautiful.
The relentless waves on Perranporth beach in Cornwall, wild and unforgiving. They're something beautiful.
The whispered conversations I have with my boyfriend late at night on the phone. They're something beautiful.

Beautiful things are often extremely simple.