M1

The hardest part of a painting is the beginning.

First I choose the size of the canvas— 

what will fit my idea?

show it in its best form?

Then I do a wash, coating the white surface with watery paint.

The canvas is cheap, and paint of future layers won’t stick without this 

ugly coating, displaying the texture of the fabric and showcasing all its flaws.

A scratch here

an unraveling there

Then I block in the shapes.

No point in drawing them out—they’re covered by the wash anyway.

Highlight the lights, choose the darks.

The eye begins to move in a pattern I chose, a path I 

laid out for it to follow.

Then the last layer, the one everyone sees,

the bright colors, the contrast, the forms

tie everything together with only pigment and shape.

The last layer, the only one everyone sees,

hides all the imperfections of the canvas,

all the errant brushstrokes of blocking,

the dark shadow put in the wrong spot,

the bright light that expanded.

See the end, but hide the story.

The end is doctor, physician, professor, scientist, researcher.

The lecturers stand on the podium, spreading their knowledge with letters trailing after their names 

like ducklings falling in line.

Type frantically, hope something will stick,

something will give me a glimmer of expertise, their assurance.

I stare at the end, with feet firmly planted at the beginning.

My short white coat feels heavy and stiff,

reminds me of how little I know.

The inside of the sleeve unravels.

All I see is the texture of a canvas covered 

in a thin wash of paint, still

showcasing all my flaws, my 

shortcomings, my ignorance.

I can’t see the end

I don’t know what the 

last layer will look like

So I start with the darks and the lights.

The shadows and the sunshine.

I study the heart

and fear the cracks of my own

when a monitor flatlines

and the jolts of the defibrillator rock a heart deaf to its rhythm.

I dissect the vocal cords

and remember the patient who is just learning to use hers.

She’s seven years old and can hear speech from her cochlear implant for the first time.

She giggles,

It sounds funny.

Each experience a brushstroke,

a picture I am too small to see.

Kristin Geczi is a second year medical student at the University of Michigan Medical School interested in pediatrics, primary care, and the intersection of art and medicine. She attended Washington University in St. Louis for her undergraduate education and majored in anthropology. She worked at a summer camp through the St. Louis Children's Hospital and helped teach a chemistry laboratory course for Wash U freshmen during a gap year.