ABSTRACT X-RAY
By Emily Camacho
Her hair shimmers, a soft golden auburn that catches the light streaming through the window, each strand glowing as if it holds the sun’s secrets. The light brushes her emerald eyes, tinged with hazel, just as they close, leaving a faint highlight on the curve of her cheekbones. Her beauty defies capture. I’ve tried pressing the charcoal to my paper, tracing the contours, chasing the sun kissed tender edges of her skin—but it’s impossible. No stroke of my hand can recreate the way the light dances across her. I’ve always been captivated by the details in others, not in critique, but in admiration. I like to believe I see beyond the surface, uncovering the quiet beauty within people. “Look past the skin. Past the muscle,” my art teacher once said, standing before our class as we fumbled to capture the essence of a live model. But how? How do you see what lies beneath? When I asked, he offered no answer, only a challenge: “Take off your glasses.” Reluctantly, I did. The world blurred, yet something unexpected emerged, a softened perspective. For the first time, I stopped looking and began seeing. And somehow, I began to glimpse the layers beneath her surface, layers even she might not see.
Before I ever enrolled in an art course, I sketched the people around me: the man on the park bench, the woman immersed in her music on the train, the child absorbed in his toy car at the playground. Each had a story. Each went far beyond the four wall confines of my sketchbook. Yet every sketch was filtered through my perception. Could I ever truly capture someone? Could anyone capture me? This question lingered. I had spent so much time studying the world through my lens, I hadn’t considered how others might view me. Am I merely a reflection of their perceptions? A composite of others’ judgments? Looking in the mirror, I often felt like I was wandering through a funhouse, distorted images of someone I didn’t fully recognize. Unlike the beauty I saw in others, I critiqued instead of admiring. The scarred skin I couldn’t seem to accept. The features I couldn’t see past. Past the skin. Past the muscle.
Each time I saw a beautiful girl, I felt no longer that admiration but envy. Why couldn’t I look like her? Why couldn’t I be her? By Monday, I no longer wore my favorite purple shirt. My aunt had said it washed me out. On Tuesday, an influencer convinced me that updos didn’t suit my round face, so I wore my hair down, chasing perfection. By Wednesday, I had straightened my curls, my grandmother ‘s voice echoing in my mind: “Se está poniendo más frío; perfecto tiempo para alisarse el pelo.” “It’s getting colder out now, perfect season to straighten your hair again”. On Thursday, I cleared my wardrobe of straight-leg jeans; bootcut and flares would better flatter my body type. By Friday, I thought I’d done everything “right.” But then she walked in. The girl who turned every head. Textbook perfect. She had it all, didn’t she? Every boy’s attention, every girl’s envy. The world seemed to bend around her. The world was her oyster
I hadn’t always cared about my appearance. I used to sit unnoticed at the back of the class, doodling on my notes, counting down the minutes to dismissal. My afternoons were spent painting. Not my reflection, but the world as I saw it. Somewhere along the way, my focus shifted. I began scrutinizing every flaw in the mirror. My art supplies gathered dust as I obsessed over everything “wrong” with me. The comments, the taunts from classmates, the passive critiques from family. They played on a loop in my mind. I hadn’t learned to love myself before I began to hate myself. I became a stranger to my own reflection, and the girl I once was felt lost to me.
Sixteen years. That’s how long I’ve spent trying to reconcile who I am with who I wish to be. I still carry the scars of a 12-year-old skipping meals, a 13-year-old hiding in oversized clothing, a 14-year-old seeking escape in self-inflicted pain. But I am learning, as I am still all these different versions of myself although I bury them as best as I can. They peer through. I’ve started to see myself through a more
accepting lens. I don’t silence the voices around me. As they will always be there. But now I decide what power they hold. Each day, I choose not to be the girl I was yesterday. Each day, I choose to be better for myself, for the women who surround me, and for the young girl within me who still needs healing. I think of my little sister, with her boundless potential and bright spirit. I think of my mother, a resilient woman who doesn’t realize her own ethereal beauty. I think of my best friend, whose pure heart and brilliant mind inspire me. In them, I see fragments of myself: my mother’s eyes, my grandmother’s curls, my sister’s smile, my best friends empathy. These pieces remind me that I am not just one girl, but a mosaic of extraordinary women who have shaped me. And so, I find myself here again…in the dim art room, the last to leave, standing before a blank canvas. Charcoal in hand, I face the mirror. Today, I will sketch her, the girl I see now. Not just the scars or the skin, but all the layers. The past, the present, and the multitude of stories within her. Past the scarred skin. Past the wounded muscle.
Today, I will capture her as she is.
And one day she will know, she is enough.