Angelina Nguyen

Australia

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."
-Benjamin Franklin

Message from Writer

Hello, everyone! I hope you enjoy my pieces published on this page! Most of what I write is inspired by real life events, along with people I have the pleasure of meeting. Please favourite, review, leave a comment or share any of my works if you like them because it may not seem like it but it means a great deal to me and will make my day tremendously.

The Box

June 18, 2017

Here is a box. 

It is not much of a box. 

Just a box.

There is little that you know of it but here it is.

Amongst another one hundred boxes. 

It was Selection Day, the final day of the competition. These boxes were soon to become finalised artworks. 

Many box makers had come and go from the competition: painters, sculptors, drawers, and architects. 

On each square table, there was a box. Within each box, materials provided. 

The artists have had three days to turn their simple box into something wonderful.

And in the midst of all of them, a young artist, small and without experience, stood clueless of what to do. 

It was third day and he still had nothing. [1]

Over the last few years, he had watched many great boxes rejected simply because they did not look pretty enough. 

Others were criticised for being too abstract, lacking technique.

One of the boxes was even torn apart by the Connoisseur. Nobody saw him, but he ordered artistic disgraces to be destroyed if it offended him. [2]

There had been rumours that the Connoisseur was all-knowing, all-seeing. He watched the competition intently and those who failed to deliver were often stripped away of the chance to apply for art school.

The young artist never understood why.

He knew that the Connoisseur had once been a reject of the competition himself, and he had thought that it would have made him more lenient towards the contemporary artists.

If this was the case, why did he love art so much that it was more as if he hated it? 

The young artist had looked at the options he was given; universal paint that could change into any colour at your command, a universal pencil that could adjust its thickness, grip and lead quality to your fitting, a universal tool kit with any tools a designer could desire.

The young artist was stumped. He did not seem to like any of them and quickly glanced at the other candidates.

Everyone was working hard. The cardboard had no longer been visible at all in most of them.

There were plenty of dot painting boxes as always. The Connoisseur liked intricacy, refined details and a clear demonstration of precision and effort. The dots all formed different subjects: animals, trees, landmarks and flowers.

Another box caught his attention. It was blue, but the young artist noticed how it reflected off light and appeared to present a spectrum of colours like a mood ring. 

He even saw boxes that had been completely deconstructed and rebuilt as thin skyscrapers, etched with windows and waving citizens from X ACTOR knives. 

They were all working really hard.

The young artist became annoyed. He was boxed in by his box.

He was contained by something that was open, yet closed off for him to be inspired.

Why could others make something out of it, and not him? 

And then, an idea pops in his head.

"Why think outside of the box," the young artist says, "when the box can be the thing we think about?" [3]

"Why create art out of nothing, when nothing can be art?"

The young artist decides to pack up his paints, neatly putting away his tools. He brushes his table clean and places the box in the centre. He covers it with the glass display box and stands back from the table. 

"I hope this is enough."

The clock's little hand strikes twelve and everyone else stopped working. 

At that instance, the Connoisseur steps in from the grand entrance. He wore a black suit with a red tie. His hair was tied up in a bun and his face fully revealed.

And he does not look impressed.

"There will be no judgements today. I have witnessed a breach of decorum in this room."

The artists look confused. One architect raised her hand.

"What is a breach of decorum?"

The Connoisseur glared at her and she immediately shied away. 

"It is when something is violated. It is when something is unconventional. Nobody likes different."

He turned to the young artist and demanded an explanation.

"What is the matter with this? This is just the same box you were given."

"You said you did not like different," the young artist replied, "and yes it it different. But is it not the same as well?"

The Connoisseur stood in shock.

"Is this not what art is? I am not a painter or sculptor or architect or drawer," the young artist stated, "I am an artist. I am different, and I am the same as everyone else in this room.

This box is my artwork because it is me."

All the other artists had been staring in awe at him. They realised something new- art is not just about how beautiful something looked, but what it stood for.

The Connoisseur said nothing. He strided out of the room, whispering in the ear of one of the judges before he closed the doors.

The judge announced,

"The winner of Selection Day is Marianne Farika."

Everyone applauded her box with its sequins and elaborate line drawings before briefly looking back at the young artist's box. 

Just a box. 

It is not much of a box. 

But it was a box. And it was inspiring, for it had managed to survive. 

The young artist smiled to himself and decided that he had won something better- the freedom to continue being an artist. 

 
[1] https://www.dropbox.com/s/yjn9mw8kne5x2dh/19183971_431020420599201_516992753_n.jpg?dl=0

[2] https://www.dropbox.com/s/2aba73osiewmyt0/19181924_431020507265859_1194081101_o.jpg?dl=0

[3] https://www.dropbox.com/s/jo5px9mmbxa1s4x/19114487_431020597265850_1037722973_n.jpg?dl=0
 

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