and all the lovely colors in between
Preface
It happened gradually — a consequence of time and the fragility of the human body — the trembling of the old man’s hands.
When the symptom began, the doctor told him with just enough compassion to not be accused of frigidness, “Unfortunately, the trembling will only worsen with time.”
The old man blamed it on God’s obsession with irony, even though the old man didn’t believe in God.
1
When he was younger, the man would unleash himself onto his canvas, imbue his entire being into every brush stroke, every pallet knife scrape, every hue and shade and tone — the Spanish Carmine, the Lapiz Lazuli, the Exotic Munsell, the sweet glory of Ghost White — and all the lovely colors in between. He would do this until the morning light would sneak through the curtained windows of his home, weigh down his yearning eyes, and lull him into reluctant rest.
Through the heavy ink of sleep, the young man would dream of many things. But the most tempting pool of fantasty was of fatherhood. He would dream of how he would teach his child to be a little braver, a little wiser, and a little more loving than he ever could be. But his dream was just that: a fictional story of a child that could never be.
With purpose reverberating inside, the young man prioritized another dream, different in ways that mattered and similar in ways that could never matter. He would be an artist, a painter, talented and skilled and valued, not abhorrently wealthy, but not struggling in any sense, just perfectly comfortable.
If nothing else, the young man wanted to create something that could mean more than nothing.
2
Critics found his art to be a teetering balance of longing and anger represented in the innocence of existence. To those lacking the artistic (or pretentious) eye, the paintings were just pretty paintings of children being children.
Regardless of how his art was interpreted, every piece would be sold, carefully packaged, and delivered to the homes of piggish buyers with ridicilous economic freedom.
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