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“That’s just the product of practice, Tonio. You can be an artist, too, if you’d like,” I say, fondly smiling at the kid. I pull one canvas out from the rack beside my couch and hold it up, Antonio looking at it with awe.
“What’s it called?”
“I honestly have noidea,” I admit. “Whenever I paint, I paint whatever feels right until I get the desired result.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I have a lot of feelings to convey, and I…don’t have anyone to share these feelings or memories with.”
“Hm, being an adult must be hard,” Antonio muses, taking a canvas and giving it to me.
“That’s my dad’s town,” I say, laughing at his innocence. “Here, this is the plaza on top, and these are the stairs and the alleyways,” I tell him as I point to each area in the painting.
“You’re right! That’s amazing, Ren. You draw more things than people, though.” He takes another canvas and holds it up, his face twisting as he tries to make sense of it. “And you like drawing muddles of colors too.”
“In my opinion, they’re easier to draw than people or landscapes,” I tell him. Then in a quieter voice, I explain, “I drew this when Dad died. I was confused about my feelings, and I couldn’t think straight.Thishappens to be the result. Something abstract and unexplainable.”
“This mess really matter to you?” Antonio asks curiously. “I don’t understand.”
I hum, thinking of a way to explain it better.
“Well, let me ask you this: If you receive a gift, or if you create something because of your own decision, you’d want to keep it close to you, right?”
Antonio’s eyebrows furrow, then realization dawns on his face. “Yeah! Because it’s mine!”
I laugh, relieved he was getting what I mean. “Then that’s exactly how I feel about these pieces here.” I take the one with muddled colors, remembering the painful days after my dad died. “For example, this piece is dedicated to my father and his memory.
“This piece here.” I take the landscape painting of his town from the couch. “It’s dedicated to my dad’s town. He helped me paint this when we went there for vacation, and I wanted to enclose the memory in a painting.”
“What about this one?” he asks, excitedly pulling a medium-sized canvas out. The portrait bears the image of my mother, but in place of a face were her favorite flowers.
“That’s the piece my dad dedicated to my mother. He, too, liked painting memories and feelings…because he loved her.”
“Uh, you’re confusing, Ren.”
“I know. I get that a lot. But this is why I never want to part with my paintings. Here, I’ll show you one more thing.” I place a guiding hand on his shoulder and lead him to my bedroom.
“Here’s my latest piece. The reason why I haven’t gone out in weeks,” I tell Antonio, proudly huffing my chest at what I’ve painted so far.
“This is amazing!” Antonio exclaims, getting close to the painting. “This is bigger than the other pieces, and it’s also the prettiest!”
“You flatter me too much, kid,” I say. “Although it isn’t finished yet. I still need to refine the details, so I’ll be finished by tomorrow.”
“Do you have a name for it? You do, don’t you?” he insists, looking at me with wide eyes.
It’s refreshing to see this kind of excitement from a child. It’s much different from the judging eyes of art critics. After all, I only want my art to be enjoyed by those who see it, yet so many ‘art enthusiasts’ ruin the experience for me.
“I do have a name, but I don’t think you’d understand it,” I joke.
Antonio crosses his arms over his chest. “Come on! I want to know, Ren!”
“Well, it’s calledThe Ephemerality of Seasons,” I tell him, and as expected, he merely tilts his head in confusion. I laugh at his efforts to take that information in.
“What does e-ephem—What does that word mean?” he manages to say, dumbfounded.
“Well, to compare it to a word, it means short-lived,” I explain, ruffling his curly hair. “A moment.”
Antonio hums. “I think I get it,” he tells me. “If it’s for your father, I think I understand.”
