The Right-Hand Column

If I had to name the precise moment my path changed, I’d have to tell you about a sunny morning when I sat in my gallery to write in my journal. It was the fifth week since my motorcycle accident, and the third day since the casts came off my hands.

For the first time in weeks, the weight of my debts didn’t feel quite as heavy. I shifted in the chair until I found a comfortable position, then, with a weak grip on the pen, drew a vertical line down the middle of the page and wrote in the left-hand column: “No money, no flashes.”

I sat with that line for a while. The sun pierced the clouds, and long patches of light slid across the corner of my desk at a snail's pace. Through the window, I could see people queuing across the street, waiting for the bus. Then the sun punched through the clouds even harder. Long beams of light caught the hair of everyone crossing the street.

“Window light,” I wrote in the right-hand column.

“No cash, no studio.” “No makeup artist.” “No stylist,” I continued writing in the left-hand column.

“At their places.” “Fuck it, no makeup.” “Undies, everyone has them,” I wrote quickly in the right-hand column.

As I read the right-hand column over and over, the idea didn't seem so ridiculous. It was simple, doable, and required nothing more than my small camera and the last lens I had.

Finally, I wrote: “A woman wakes up on a beautiful sunny morning, looking beautiful and confident.”

Mauricio