The Third Canvas Chapter 5: When Home Does Not Agree With The Gallery

Three months had passed since the auction, and my name was beginning to spread. People spoke of me as “the artist in the long headscarf”, or “the girl weighing eighty kilograms who painted Raven Hambaly to look like an angel.”

The man in the grey suit was Mr. Hariz, the owner of Nadi Gallery in Kuala Lumpur. He had given me a clear timeline: “Your solo exhibition, titled The Second Line, will open in four weeks’ time. You will need to prepare at least twelve finished works.”

Twelve pieces. Only four weeks to complete them. And here I was, still learning how to trust even a single line I drew.

The college art studio had become my second home — my safe space — shared with Raven and Thalia. Thalia had unofficially appointed herself as my manager; she arranged schedules, found models, ordered canvases and materials, and kept everything running smoothly. Raven took on the role of personal barista, honest critic, and loyal supporter — every time one of my pencils snapped or wore down, he would quietly slip a fresh one into the edge of my headscarf.

“What will be your next subject?” Raven asked one evening, wiping dust off the worktable. His dimples had become a familiar and cherished sight, something I looked forward to seeing every single day.

“I want to paint my mother,” I answered softly.

Thalia stopped typing on her phone instantly, while Raven set down the cloth in his hand carefully.

My mother. She was the very first barrier standing between me and my dreams.

That night, she called me. Her voice sounded heavy and tired, weighed down by worry and expectation. “Your older sister told me you are planning to hold an exhibition. Is that true?”

“Yes, Mother, it is true,” I replied, sitting on the edge of my bed. I had taken off my long headscarf earlier, tying my hair back loosely, and lined up my favourite pencils — the 4B, the 3H, and the HB — neatly beside my pillow, like protective talismans. In my past life, I had hidden every bit of my passion for art from her, knowing all too well that in her eyes, art was nothing more than a path leading to poverty and hardship. She had always wanted me to become a teacher, to work a stable government job, and eventually retire comfortably — a safe, predictable life.

“Where will the money come from?” she asked straight away, cutting straight to the heart of her concerns. “How much will you spend just on paper and paints? Do you think we are wealthy enough to support such a hobby?”

I swallowed hard, pushing down the lump forming in my throat. “The gallery will cover all the costs, Mother. My only responsibility is to create the art. And… after the auction three months ago, the earnings I received are enough to pay the rent for this place for the next three months.”

Silence stretched across the line, thick and heavy, before she spoke the words I had dreaded hearing all along. “If you fail, you must come back home and settle down. I have arranged for you to marry the son of my elder brother. He works at the Land Office, has a steady income, and leads an easy, comfortable life.”

The son of my uncle. He was thirty-five years old, with a large belly and a habit of mocking and criticising women with fuller figures. In my previous life, my mother had almost succeeded in arranging our marriage, believing it was my only option since I had no clear direction or career path.

I gripped the phone tightly until my knuckles turned white. “Give me just four weeks, Mother. If this exhibition does not go well, I promise I will do exactly as you say and come home.”

She ended the call right there. No words of encouragement, no prayers for my success, no expression of love or hope — only the sharp click signalling the end of the conversation.

I threw my phone onto the mattress, feeling hot tears roll down my cheeks and soak into my gloves.

A soft knock came at the door a moment later. It was Raven. He was always careful and respectful, never entering the female dormitory or rented accommodation uninvited, but tonight he had brought Thalia along, treating her presence as a sort of official “pass” to visit me.

“Are you alright?” he asked, sitting down on the floor so that he was level with where I sat on the bed. Thalia immediately moved to sit beside me, wrapping her arms around me in a warm, comforting embrace.

“Mother gave me an ultimatum,” I confessed, my voice breaking with emotion. “I have four weeks. If my exhibition fails or does not bring success, I will be forced into marriage.”

Raven remained quiet for a long while, thinking carefully before reaching into his backpack and pulling out a thick folder. Inside, there were copies of the official contract with the gallery, a list of collectors and art lovers who had already reserved pieces in advance, and even an email from Puan Lina, which simply read: I will buy any work you choose to display, for I wish to support the courage and heart you have shown.

“So many people already believe in you and your talent,” Raven said gently. “Now, the only thing left is for you to believe in yourself too.”

Thalia used the edge of my headscarf to wipe away my tears. “We will create twelve masterpieces. Or twenty, if that is what it takes. You will draw and paint, while Raven and I will be your models. If necessary, I will even drag Pak Samad, the security guard, to pose for you too.”

A small, weak laugh escaped my lips. “Pak Samad? I’m afraid his fee would be a large plate of coconut rice and spicy sambal.”

“Then that is exactly what he shall get,” Raven said, pulling out a fifty-ringgit note from his pocket and waving it playfully. “My treat.”

During the first week, I painted my mother, relying entirely on my memories. I pictured her when she was younger, holding me close while I lay sick with fever. Her headscarf was shorter back then, her face showing clear signs of exhaustion and hard work, yet her eyes shone with deep, unconditional love. I painted the same scene three times — tearing up the first two attempts out of dissatisfaction, but keeping the third, feeling that I had finally captured the essence of who she was.

In the second week, I turned my thoughts to my father, who had passed away years ago. I painted him teaching me how to hold a pencil when I was just six years old, remembering clearly the words he spoke that day: “This pencil is your sword, my dear. Use it to stand strong and fight against whatever hardships the world throws your way.”

By the third week, exhaustion began to take its toll. My hands ached and cramped, my mind felt empty and drained of ideas, and self-doubt started creeping back in. Unexpectedly, Zara visited the studio — not to argue or cause trouble, but simply to hand over a neatly packed box.

“Charcoal sticks, imported all the way from Italy,” she said briefly, avoiding eye contact. “I… I am truly sorry for everything I have done and said to you.”

I looked at her carefully. This was the same Zara who used to mock me, calling my long, loose clothing “old-fashioned curtains”. Now, her eyes held no trace of malice or jealousy, though they still looked empty and troubled.

“I don’t want you to be forced into a marriage you do not want just because your artistic career did not work out,” she added quietly. “I know exactly how painful and hopeless that kind of situation feels.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned around and walked away.

Raven picked up the box, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Our former rival has now become our supplier. Quite the plot twist, isn’t it?”

The fourth and final week arrived. Eleven paintings were finished and ready, yet the most important piece — the centrepiece of the whole exhibition — remained untouched. I wanted to capture the three of us: Raven, Thalia, and myself, on the night of the fire in the storage room. But every time I tried to sketch my own face, I ended up erasing it immediately. Too heavy-set, I thought. Too many blemishes and acne scars. I don’t deserve to stand beside them, nor do I deserve to be seen as worthy enough to paint.

On the very last night before all works had to be submitted, it was already three in the morning. I sat alone in the quiet studio, while Raven lay asleep on the sofa nearby, having stayed up just to keep me company.

I whispered softly to the blank canvas in front of me, “If I don’t even have the courage to draw myself, how can I ever expect others to truly see and understand me?”

I reached for a 3H pencil and drew the first line — the shape of my chin, round and soft. The second line traced the outline of my long headscarf, falling gracefully over my shoulders. The third line marked the edge where my pencils were usually tucked. This time, I refused to erase or change anything. I continued adding depth with charcoal, blending colours with soft pastels, and letting my tears fall freely onto the paper, mixing into the artwork and becoming part of the story itself.

As the call to dawn prayer echoed through the air, Raven woke up. He walked over quietly, standing behind me, and rested his chin gently on top of my head, wrapping his arms around me in a warm embrace.

He didn’t say the painting was beautiful or perfect. Instead, he whispered, “This is the woman I know. This is the artist I fell in love with.”

I turned around to face him, my face smudged and covered in charcoal dust. “But what if my mother still does not approve, or refuses to give her blessing?”

“She will come around,” Raven said, his smile deepening and revealing those familiar dimples. “Because once this exhibition is over, I intend to visit your mother personally. I want to ask for her permission… to take care of you and stay by your side for as long as I live.”

I stood frozen in place, my heart beating fast. To take care of me… Did he mean…?

Just then, Thalia burst into the room carrying breakfast — fragrant coconut rice and cold sweet tea. Seeing the two of us in such a tender moment, she immediately shouted playfully, “Hey you two! Could you please save the romantic confessions until after we have delivered all the artworks? The curator is arriving at nine o’clock sharp!”

We both laughed, tired and exhausted yet filled with a sense of joy and purpose.

That afternoon, Mr. Hariz arrived to collect the twelve completed pieces. He stood in front of the final painting for a long time, examining every detail carefully. “And what is the title of this one?” he asked finally.

I looked at Raven, then at Thalia, and answered firmly, “It is called… Reborn.”

Mr. Hariz nodded in appreciation. “It is already sold. Even before the exhibition opens, Puan Lina has placed a reservation to buy this very piece.”

That night, I gathered my courage and called my mother again.

“The exhibition has been approved and accepted, Mother. Every single artwork has already found someone who wishes to own it. I will not be forced into marriage anymore.”

Silence followed once more, lasting for what felt like an eternity, until her voice came through — soft, gentle, and much warmer than before. “I saw the painting you made of me. Your sister shared the photos posted on the college’s official page — the one where I am holding you while you were sick and feverish.”

I was taken by surprise; Thalia must have uploaded it without telling me.

“Do I… do I look beautiful in that picture?” I asked nervously, my voice barely audible.

Mother took a deep breath before replying, “I may not be beautiful, nor was I ever perfect. But looking at your painting, I could feel the love and care you have for me, and the love I have always held for you. It has been such a long time since I felt truly seen and understood by you.”

Fresh tears began to fall, but this time they felt warm and hopeful, bringing relief and happiness rather than pain and sadness.

“Will you come and visit the exhibition, Mother?” I asked, holding my breath as I waited for her answer.

“I… I will try my best to be there,” she said, before the line disconnected.

I put down the phone, and Raven handed me a tissue to wipe my tears. “She will definitely come,” he assured me.

And when she finally arrived, she would see all twelve frames hanging proudly on the gallery walls. Eleven of them told the stories of other people — their struggles, their happiness, and their journeys. But the last one told my story: the story of a girl weighing eighty kilograms, standing one hundred and seventy centimetres tall, with blemished skin and a long headscarf covering her entire body, yet carrying three precious pencils close to her heart. And beside her stood a young man one hundred and eighty-five centimetres tall, who had chosen to stand right next to her, walking alongside her as an equal, rather than standing ahead and leading the way.

The exhibition was scheduled to open next week. The challenges and obstacles regarding my family had not completely disappeared, and the road ahead was still long and difficult. But I had finally drawn my first line with confidence and courage. Now, it was time to fill the rest of the canvas with colours, hope, and new beginnings.

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