Whispers in crimson

She paints,
Not on a white canvas,
But on old, shredded rugs.
Stroke by stroke,
She finds something new.
Line by line,
She tries not to break the clue.
Brushes seem to catch on fire,
With paint seem to be a flu.
She’s that girl
Who paints out of the blue,
As people tell her the hue.
Can you guess what it is,
On what she should do?