The Seeker of Beauty

By: Jade Robbins

When there were bottles breaking in the kitchen below the open stairs, I often found
myself in the bathroom with my sister. I remember watching in awe as she applied deep
maroon eyeshadow -- she always explained each choice of shade meticulously. Then, she
would use the crushed coal pencil to outline her striking eyes, and miraculously put her
eyebrows in their place with one swipe of a brush. I had never seen anything more beautiful.
Every time she traced her eyelids, we held our collective breath; only feeling free to exhale
when she put down the eyeliner. Something in those moments stilled every part of me. Although
the cheap paint on our faces quickly dissolved, I grew to love this time with my sister. I didn’t
realize it at the time, but she was protecting me. As she played melancholy melodies through
her iPod touch, slowly the sound of breaking downstairs grew dimmer.
She told me during one of these nights that the most beautiful songs ever written were
Lua by Bright Eyes and Fix You by ColdPlay. When my sister got an iPod for Hanukkah, she
gave me her old portable CD player with a ColdPlay disc inside. That was the first CD I ever
owned. I listened to it relentlessly, and cried big heavy tears whenever Fix You played. My sister
never ceased to illuminate the beauty in this world for me. It’s as if she was the moon, reflecting
the light of beautiful things through the darkness we had grown comfortable navigating.
She stayed in her room for most of my childhood. Her shades drawn and her door
locked. I used to resent that she stayed locked up in her fortress. I resented it until I started
filling her shoes, until I realized the stability and comfort of my bedroom was the only thing I
could really count on when things got turbulent outside.
When she left for college, somewhere warmer and brighter, my parents finally split. The
night was like many others. It ended in a door slam and an empty house. I remember it felt
different this time, more finite, more absolute, but I don’t remember being sat down to be told
that it was the end. Everything just sort of fell out of place.
Without my sister, and without a solid home, the next few years were lonely. I felt like I
was floating from place to place with no control. In the interludes, when my world was not under
attack, I found myself curled up in a bathroom sink, holding my breath to draw intricate patterns
on my eyelids. Or writing music for no one but myself. Or sewing, or sculpting, or anything that
gave me that stillness. It saved me. Pulling beautiful things out from the shadows made it so
that I couldn’t float anymore.
Whenever people ask why I am an artist, I reply with, “because it’s the only thing I know.”
Deep down, however, I never felt satiated with that placating answer, even though it moved the
conversation along just fine. The answer I was looking for is in the beauty around me. The
universe is a language of art, and I am a translator. It seems strange that the only time I am
aware of my translating ability is when the beauty seems scarce.
My sister is a seeker of truth and beauty above all things. In a place that seemed so
stripped of light, she created her own. That’s who I want to become. I want to be the song that
stills someone's breath, and the seeker of light in the dark.