Chapter Forty-One
Mother VS. Art: Part Three
I was confused about every fucking thing. Why the hell I was doing this, what was happening, where my life was going, who I really was. Literally everything had a who, why, or what at the beginning or middle of it. This painting I had just done presented all of that. It had a bigger meaning than just angry. It was me put onto a sheet of hard surface, represented in small fragmentations of color strewn about that very surface. It was me exposing myself to the light in the world and surprisingly, that didn’t bother me. I actually felt a tad bit better about everything. I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding in. My hands ached a bit from clutching them into fists as I thought. My eyes remained squinted but my feelings toward what I had just done were better. I was slowly understanding just what art could do for me and what I could do for it. And then it hit me. Art could be my everything. All I had to do was keep doing it.
With all that I could bare, with the silent pain digging deeper into my heart, I kept painting, I kept creating things I only wished would come true in the real world. While protecting myself from other things willing to harm me I was forming this kind of new life I was completely safe in. I was shielding myself from everything else out there. It gave me something to touch, it wasn’t a story from a book, a myth from a fairytale, or part of my imagination – art was becoming my new world, one that I knew for a fact wouldn’t hurt me. I wondered if it would fight back if I was the one doing the hurting. I decided not to find out. I was finally getting what I needed and deserved, something real, something that actually cared even though it had no living breathing soul, art was something I could believe in, therefore it made it easier to believe in myself. I even complimented one of my later pieces. I was proud of myself for once in my miserable life. I remember the day so perfectly. I was up in my room – where I was most the days – painting away. I had gotten into sketching and other forms of creativity but paints were what I had to do. The others things could be side projects but the swift stroke of a brush just sent chills within me.
It was late and a school night. My mother had gone to bed threatening me if I didn’t fall asleep soon. Of course, after about fifteen minutes of silence I knew she was asleep and it was safe to go about my business. I had kept my secret passion and escape away from her. It had been about a month. I was simply painting away, not having a care in the world what time it was or what homework still needed to be completed. This was my time with what I loved, and what I loved was art.
My eyes started to get heavy but I didn’t stop, I didn’t put the brush down, I didn’t stop dipping the little hairs into the different paints; exposing the smooth texture to a cold liquid. I pressed the bristles to the canvas and watched the colors bleed into the surface. It was all so simple, yet out of this simplicity there came a type of twisted confusion only true artists were born to understand. At this point I had no idea if I was considered one of those few; frankly I didn’t really care if I was. I wasn’t interested in the techniques of it all, the history and background – I was only interested in what I was doing or how I wanted to go about things. I didn’t want to learn out of a book. After spending a lot of time with the hobby I grew insulted by the amount of text books art teachers enforce in the schools to try and teach art. I believed any text book was useless, but especially ones having to do with art and creation, imagination. There was no right or wrong to a finished masterpiece; because that’s what every one was – a masterpieces and no book or teacher could tell me otherwise. I felt so optimistic. I had never in my life been positive. There was no cultural change, I was still cramped up in the dirty life of Jersey and I was still banging my head against my desk at school, counting down the seconds until the final bell rang – but something changed, and it was a change for the better. I saw things different – I didn’t necessarily see beauty in everything. I knew for a fact I would never reach that height of optimism, but I did start noticing the small things in life that I had never paid attention to before. Like the little bugs crawling on leaves, the simple pedestrian standing outside waiting at the bus stop. The small things that made the world a place to live, an inhabited surrounding there to fit our needs. Even though a man sitting on the side of the road might not seem that interesting, or that important to the common bystander – it did to me, now, that I was seeing everything through an artist’s eyes. That guys wasn’t just a homeless pest asking for money, he was now a guy with feelings like me. Just because he didn’t have the same clothes or live in a (semi-good) house didn’t mean he wasn’t like me. And that’s when art, painting, creation, imagination caused me to realize I had been doubting myself in everything the whole time. I never liked to give myself credit for anything, but as I stood back in my dark room with only a desk side lamp to shine light onto my new creation I realized I was good at something. My face lit up with happiness. I could be proud of something.
I placed my hands securely on my hips and thought: this is what it must feel like, to be an artist. Rich or poor, old or young I am a fucking artist.
All my life I had just wanted to be something, something good. This was my path I needed and wanted to take and I was fucking ecstatic. I had the feeling if I had discovered this hidden passion of mine years and years before it wouldn’t have had the same effect on me because I hadn’t been through as much yet. Now that I was older, now that I had gone to hell and back then back again I could truly appreciate what the fuck I was doing, and what I was brining to life through my finger tips. I couldn’t believe the power I held in my hands but I knew I would one day. I knew it would keep saving me and rebuilding me from the ground up. I was so happy, I felt so alive. I felt like something had turned on inside of me that had been off my whole life. It was something new and real. And this painting I was staring at said it all. It was my best piece of work yet. It meant something to me. It wasn’t just nature, it wasn’t just a thing – it was something to live by, something I had wanted to do to the world. It made me laugh a bit just staring at it. I smiled at my wittiness, but also applauded my ingenious. It was a painting of a hand facing me, and it’s one finger, the middle one, sticking up high and proud among the others which were tucked under each other. It was a big ‘fuck you’ to the world, it was my way of rebelling against something that wished to keep me chained. I could never let anyone see this, though. It was shamed on by everyone else in the world. Who would want to stare at a painting, a clear message that wasn’t a compliment? That showed flaw? No one wanted to see it because then it exposed how cruel people could be. But this is where I shook my head at those sad, sad people. They weren’t the ones who thought like artists – they were the ones who saw only one thing and believed it went along with every single thing. This ‘fuck you’ was not representing the flaws in us, but the rebels within society who wanted to throw themselves into the line of fire. This painting was a painting made to make others happy – so maybe, just maybe it would give someone a spark of joy knowing they aren’t alone. It defined what it meant to be an outsider. I knew I wasn’t alone, but I sure as hell felt like it.
I watched my work dry, I loved feeling it every once in a while, checking if the paint was still indeed wet. The ripples I sometimes made surprised me as I would run my fingers over the surface. I loved the wavy textures when too much paint globed together. It made it so the picture was actually 3D, like you could actually reach out and touch the object. I made what I created real and that was the greatest achievement of all.
I set the finished piece against the back of my wall behind my door. Mom never walked in on my without knocking, but I wanted to be sure she wouldn’t be able to see it. When I wasn’t home she didn’t venture into my space often (well, I don’t think she does…) but I wanted to be safe. This painting was a special one that although vulgar displayed feelings beyond the verbal communication could say. It was a symbol of pride (in this case) but I knew my mother wouldn’t see it that way. She wasn’t an artist – she was one of those people who saw it once and stuck to what she knew, to what she was comfortable with. I only wished I could have converted her. It was so much healthier living the life of an optimist. I was still learning and still getting there but I found I was gaining patients. Everyday it was a little easier to understand things, all thanks to this amazing thing called art.
Bottling it up inside wasn’t the easiest thing. I craved to share my discovery with someone but I had no friends, no one would give a shit in school, my mother wouldn’t understand, I had no one – only myself and this beautiful hobby, no not even a hobby, lifestyle that I had picked up. I tasted the anticipation but had no one to share it with. I searched for weeks, but it was a lost cause. I couldn’t trust a soul, I couldn’t even trust myself. The fuck was I thinking? What was I expecting? I was wishing for something impossible to come true. It brought my spirits down but not enough for me to give up. And then I found it…I found the place I never actually new existed….
The basement – I didn’t even know the school had an accessible one. I had lost my way through the school searching for a new class marked as art. I was excited but didn’t know what to expect. I soon realized that I wasn’t lost; I was going in the right direction. I walked through a big black door – intimidating at the least – I pushed it wide open letting the light from the other side shine into my face brightly. I had never known of another classroom down below. But I had found it, and I was excited. I coughed a few times to make sure someone was actually in there. A bright yellow and green painted wall greeted me in. It hurt my eyes a bit and took some getting used to but I quickly smiled at the glorious display. I felt like an alien walking into a new world, everything was so artsy, everything was so different. “Hello?” My voice echoed through the huge room. The space was about the size of three classrooms. Each wall was painted a different color than the other. Things hung from the ceilings like falling rain. “Hello?” I called again, but there was still no answer. Another room branched off of the huge one. It was like a maze. I wanted to travel through ever inch of it, memorize all the corners and passages and then someone stepped out of yet another room which rested in the back of the second one. I looked to the side, a bit startled. “Hey, sorry – did hear you.” My eye widened, someone was talking to me, who was this guy? I had never seen him before. “It’s okay, um; I’m looking for the art class.” Then, his eyes lit up, brighter than mine even. “Are you serious? You’re my student?”
“Uuuh, yeah I guess. Am I the only one?” The boy laughed. His teeth shined, he looked to be my age, maybe even a little younger but only by a year or so. “Actually yeah – no one ever signs up for this class. So, uh, welcome.” I smiled as well as I could. I was shocked to say the least. “Um, aren’t you a student here?” The boy laughed loudly. The sound seemed to cloud the room with happiness and welcome. “I am, I am. Malcolm’s the name, your’s?”
“Um, Frank. What’s your grade?”
“Junior. Almost done. Fucking school’s gonna make me kill myself before I actually got out.” He let out another large laugh but this time I joined him.
At the time I was in my sophomore year. I had never seen this kid before but he was cool. He had a band tee-shirt on, but it was one I didn’t know the name of. “What about you?” His voice suddenly cut in again, breaking me from my train of thoughts. “Oh, I’m in tenth – sophomore. No where near close.” I sighed, thinking of the freedom college will bring. He laughed again and kept a smile on his face. “You’ll get there. So, Frank. Let’s get started.” He stepped into the room I was in, setting down a container of something on one of the tables. “Take a seat, anywhere ya like.” He pointed to some of the stools, the tops of them covered in different colors. I sat in an orange one and set my bag down next to me. Malcolm came back over to me quickly with a bunch of supplies in his arms. “Um, what are you doing?” He raised his brows and looked at me like I was stupid. “I can only paint.”
“We’re gonna learn everything.” It wasn’t a question, he wasn’t unsure of himself; it was a statement – positive and direct. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook. “You have a hard job if you’re planning on teaching me more than just –,”
“Don’t underestimate me, Frank.” I placed my hands on the table, feeling more relaxed but not anymore powerful. “I’m just saying –,”
“Well you’re saying wrong. You’re going to bowing down to me by the time this school year ends. You’ll be a fucking master.” He smiled devilishly. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to learn everything but wasn’t sure if I could, mentally. “Malcolm?” I asked him after watching him sort through his many, many piles of art supplies. “Yeah, Frank?” His tone was even and calm – he wasn’t acting like me teacher he was acting equal to me, like he were both there to learn. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Are you an artist?”
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