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The Artist

Drawing memories of the future as pen and paper kiss

By Lili JanePublished 3 years ago 9 min read
28
The Artist: Design by Liliana Jane (Images sourced from Pexels)

#74

Pen and paper kiss eloquently in the fading light. Red and gold leap between the clouds, flirting with stone and concrete and rippling water as the earth diligently spins on its axis, heedless to the pair of eyes straining to soak in every beam and detail of light. A careless precision, at once angry and eager and desperate, possesses the muscles and sinews of the prematurely worn fingers of the man who stands on the old bridge, shivering in the autumn breeze. Etchings and lines become form, conversing in inked dialogue, a silent summons to notice the glorious tragedy of the instance the fleeting sun slips away into slumber.

But a snapshot remains: the bridge, the clouds, the lights dancing in the river, the promenade and its oblivious guests, all scrawled in a small black notebook in ink and white and all the vibrant radiance of memory. In that drawing is something else, something the mindless, laughing, chattering crowds going about their day probably never noticed. The little girl wrapped snuggly in an oversized scarf and the smiling woman in a long coat perched at the bridge railing, pointing at something beyond the edge of the page as melting ice cream trickles down sticky, little fingers.

The worn fingers shut the book softly. He would have walked slowly toward them, a friendly smile ready and pulling at the corners of his mouth, would have given the drawing to the woman and her daughter, who had also been entranced by the sunset. But they were already gone, disappearing to the bustling flow of the crowd.

#31

The concrete was cold, hard and familiar as he pulled the coarse blanket tighter around his chest. The tips of his fingers were stiff, with a sensation that felt almost like burning, and the joints ached but the coins on the cardboard glinted hearteningly in streetlights, encouraging his precise motions. A couple stood before him with cheeks reddened in the windchill, bodies pressed together as their arms circled each other tightly. White teeth beamed and eyes shone despite the heavy loads on their backs.

"Whereabouts do you come from?" he asked.

"A city far from here," they answered, "but one with not quite so much charm."

"How long will you be staying?" he asked. Perhaps they would be interested to discover some hideaway corners the tourists hadn’t yet made popular on Instagram.

"Thank you kindly," they answered. "We would have loved to, but tonight is our last night here. Tomorrow, we move on to our hostel in the next city."

"Così è la vita," the man said, "but next time you must visit the serene San Frencesco della Vigna."

"Yes," they readily agreed. "It will be on our list for the next time we are visiting. "

Scribbling a hasty signature next to the number in the bottom right corner, the man gently tore the paper from the notebook spine. He carefully passed the thin page to eager hands that traced the forms and details of his work, extracting appreciative exclamations and gentle oohs and sparkling eyes.

"This is perfect," they said, "this exactly what we were hoping for. We will frame it on our wall at home. "

The man smiled wistfully. "I am so glad that it brings you joy," he said.

They handed him slightly crinkled notes, which he tucked carefully into the pocket at the back of his notebook. The couple turned to leave, then paused a moment.

"You know, your talent must surely be wasted here," they said hesitantly. "Why not join the other artists at the market by the canal? "

"Perhaps it is wasted," he conceded, looking away. "But this is something I must do. I have something to finish, a story to tell."

"Well then, buona fortuna," they said. And they smiled that awful, kind sympathy smile he recognised all too well.

"Grazie," he replied.

#103

It was too early for the sun to yet climb over the building's terracotta tiles, creep down the flaking paint of the walls and dance over the grass. But it would, like every other morning. He knew the moment when the sun would hit the base of the statue in the centre of the garden, flicker up the aging stone skirts, caress the babe in arms, up and up until the woman's face was almost too bright to look at, too dazzling to look away.

This was the morning. He would draw her, like he had imagined, dreamed, and delayed and avoided until the pages were running down. He sat slowly on the low stone wall, leaning against an arched column. He would not disturb anyone at this hour. There was the faint echo of voices, the ever-present sound water lapping at the stone walls of the canals. But here the silence of the convent pervaded the air. It was not heavy or oppressive; there was no one in sight to speak with, and except for the words that clung tightly to the roof of his mouth, he had really nothing to say, anyway.

The little black notebook, worn at the spine, was in easy reach in his bag. The next blank page stared knowingly up at him. What heresy is this that you plan? it accused.

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed deeply in, listening for the faint birdsong. The glowing face of the stone woman greeted his eyes, and without looking down, the pen grazed the paper, sending a shockwave up his arm.

He lost sense of time and space as the world slowed down, imploding rapidly, gently, spectacularly until all that mattered, all that was, was the dialogue between object and line and his gaze and the wonder, and he fell headlong into the dream.

At last, the man blinked as if slowly waking up from a deep sleep. The light had now moved on; the Madonna stood imperially before him in ambient light and shadows and the only sound was the wisping of a monk's garment over the pavers in the courtyard. He looked down, wondering what image would greet his eyes.

A Madonna of ink and paper reigned over the page in glorious grace. His eyes flickered. The features had changed, become less solemn, somehow gentler, familiar. She look back peacefully at him with an expression of knowing, that his heart remembered while his mind refused to recognise. The calm stone child was now squealing with laughter.

He gasped, closing the book, and staggered away without looking back.

#120

"Might I draw your picture?" he asked them, trembling. The little girl squeaked in delight.

"That would be lovely," the woman said with kindness. "Thank you."

He had recognised them from across the promenade. They were so much like the woman and girl on the bridge the night before, yet different, perfect. It was them, and no one else. Drawn by a compulsion he couldn't explain, he had near stumbled up, startling everyone — including himself.

"Hello," the woman had said. "Can we help you? Do you need something?"

"No," the man had replied. "And yes — I mean — yes. I draw portraits for people. Sometimes I sell them. See?"

He had thrust up the little black book to their faces, flipping rapidly through the remaining pages, edges of torn pages riddled between the delicate drawings.

The woman had blinked, perplexed. "You are very talented, sir."

He had breathed deeply. The strange sensation of floating had spread throughout his body — or perhaps it was the feeling that a river experiences as it rushes recklessly and unconstrained to the sea.

"I would like to do a portrait of you both." The words had escaped his trembling lips. "Might I draw your picture — please?"

The little girl had clapped her hands together excitedly.

"Oh!" The woman had said, surprised. "I see. Well — why not? Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you."

Now he stood before them, as the woman lifted the little girl in her arms, and together they beamed at him, small harbour waves flickering in the background. The trembling gradually faded. There was barely a tremor left as he held the masterpiece before them.

"That's us," the little girl said with amazement. The corners of the woman's eyes crinkled.

The afternoon light flittered in the man’s eyes, playing tricks that them seem as if they almost glistened. A light breeze blew, rustling the pages, as if an unseen hand were looking through the drawings as one reads pages in a novel.

The girl tugged at the woman’s sleeve. "In each drawing," she said, "that’s us — we are both together in all these places!"

"So we are," said the woman cautiously and with wonder. "But how did you do this? We only arrived in Venice this morning. "

"These are memories of a past future," the man whispered, voice rasping like sandpaper on sandstone. He held out the book in two hands. "Please, make them yours. "

"Are you sure?" she said hesitantly. These pictures look like they mean an awful lot to you."

"Yes," said the man. "But that is why you must have them — everything in the notebook. You are the ones I am meant to give this to."

He could not have said if his chest was lighter or heavier the moment the book slipped past his stained fingertips for the last time. But he had found them, completed the task, rediscovered the woman and the little girl he so often saw in his dreams and waking moments and gifted them the life that should have been theirs.

It was finished.

#1

Of all people, why did he chose us? The woman wonders as she hugs her daughter closely. The girl grasps the notebook tightly, as if it were a precious teddy bear. They watch the man disappear into the crowd. Was it a trick of the light, or were his shoulders a little straighter under the stained overcoat?

The woman gently pries the book from the girl's fingers. She looks down again at the final drawing on the final page, the delicate lines that captured the delight in a child's eyes and the lines of love in the more careworn, cheerful face. A scrawl beneath the picture teeters on the edge of the paper.

Vivi bene, ama molto, ridi spesso.

Live well, love much, laugh often.

Yes, she thinks. Good words to live by.

Her eyes then come to rest on the swollen back pocket.

"What's in there?" the little girl asks.

"I'm not sure," she replies, a small frown marking her forehead.

Inside is a thick envelope, straining at the glue that holds the pocket in place. The woman feels a pounding as she fights to keep her hands steady. Together, they peer inside.

Later that night in their hotel room, when the girl helped her mother count it all, they would discover its contents added up to twenty thousand dollars.

Who were the little girl and the woman to the man? Share your thoughts with me @lilijanewriter

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About the Creator

Lili Jane

Hey there! I’m Lili 😊 she/her

I'm a dreamer curious about philosophy, the world and people's lived experiences. I dabble in creative writing from time to time.

Love to hear your thoughts about my stories! Connect with me @lilijanewriter

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