My parents always asked, 'why' when I said, I want to write, I want to paint. I never bothered to answer them, instead, I continued doing what I love to do.
I got some art supplies to home and began to paint whenever, I get a chance. On one evening, my father watching me paint over a black canvas, he was expecting me to do some nature scene. I was busy painting lines. Can I paint, he asked standing infront of me. I welcomed him and put all the brushes and paints next to him.
He struggled to sit down with me. It's tough to bite the truth that parents are getting old. I noticed him slowly settling down and asked for some support to hold the canvas straight.
First, he asked brown, then blue, then yellow and followed a series of colors splattering on canvas. My mom coming once in a while and trying to recognize what my Dad painted. Is this water? is this tree? Is this grass, she asked out of curiosity. I persuaded her to paint but, she reminded me of kitchen work she gotta do.
I wonder, when we could be free of chores and have a family time in which we can paint, read or laugh together. After an hour, we got up with smiles on our faces. My father went on showing his master piece to the neighbours who were walking by.
I continued with my abstract art. My father and mother, always disappointed in the uncertainity, and vagueness I work with. I was clear of what I was painting. I titled it, Anatomy of night. How does a night look in a person's mind? How does night described in frames? I went on with my soliloquy on dissecting night through stories, unsaid words, dreams, sighs, fears and what not.
Post a Comment
Thank you for reading.