A friend told me a bad-luck story of his artist-friend. I found it compelling and wanted to write it down. Of course, as I did so I embellished the story and added my own details. It was compelling to me because even though the artist’s outer world became smaller, his inner world did not. He did not allow himself to be filled with despair, but instead kept hopeful and moved forward finding solutions. I hope I captured that aspect of the story which impressed me when I first heard it.
A young artist
applied geometric shapes to painted canvases.
He sold a few.
On bright sheets that he coloured himself,
he wrote letters to strangers, which they answered.
Once
he spent a whole morning pasting coffee grounds and sand together
marveling how easily they mingled.
To support himself, he tidied and mopped, wiped surfaces,
happy because, this way, he kept his own life
free from darkness and clutter .
One day a sharp pain arrived in his right shoulder
travelled down his arm and remained.
Work was not possible.
Doctors, baffled, could offer only painkillers.
Exploratory surgery would not guarantee anything,
so
the artist waited for the pain to subside
which it did, somewhat.
But still he could not work.
Money dwindled. He used his savings and help came from friends
but there was not enough anymore to pay the rent.
One day
he woke up, opened the curtains and the window
Leaning out over the frame, he found
that the heavy heat on his shoulders
and the backs of his arms made him happy.
He hummed as he dressed, then went outside.
Later in a coffee shop an older woman,
with long hair, brown and brittle, smiled at him across the tables.
Drawn by her flouncy pink feathered shawl,
he went over to sit with her.
Giggling ,they exchanged their stories.
She laughed uproariously at his bad luck,
but he did not mind.
Then she looked serious for a moment.
She offered him the small bedroom in her apartment for free.
And he moved in.
She slept in the living room, was glad of his company.
He wrangled a small disability pension
from the government, now he pays her a little rent.
Sometimes they share a meal.
Her laughter is outlandish but he has perfected his smile.
He uses it when he needs space.
She sees it and understands at once
that the area between them must become larger,
The pain in his arm has lessened.
He has set up a working space
in the corner of his bedroom where
he can paint and move paper around.
The window faces south.
In the mid-afternoon on clear days
he stretches out on the floor
glad
to feel the sun’s rays warm his body.
