Close Encounter: The Death of Art

“DAVID! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MARCY?!”

I paused mid-stroke; Mom had seen what I’d done. She was running, pounding up the stairs so fast I barely had time to prepare for war.

“Well?” She huffed from the doorframe, still in the blue-collar clothes of a construction worker, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Marcy was standing behind her meekly, her face painted rainbow and her blonde hair streaked with black ink. I carefully put my brush aside, slowly and deliberately to show I had been busy with painting.

“Well, you see, mother--”

“Get to the point, Mr. Harrison, before I lose my patience.”

There was no avoiding it.

“I don’t know why. I just wanted to, and Marcy said she wanted facepaint.”

Mom looked doubtful. “Blame it on her, huh? That’s low, even for you.”

Ouch. I cast my eyes to her feet.

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, “It’ll wash off in the bath.”

I wasn’t sure what else Mom wanted from me, other than the apology. She looked dissatisfied.

“You know, that thing you do really isn’t productive. Multiple times now you’ve lashed out because of it.”

Because I did art?

“Not like I’m gonna stop, I like what I do.” I replied, trying not to sound harsh. It didn’t work. Mom scowled.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time you did stop that… art stuff, or whatever the hell you do.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“It’s repulsive.” She slammed my room door, her footsteps fading down the stairs with Marcy’s tiny ones in tow. I cringed in my seat and turned back to the painting.

“AND GET DOWN HERE TO HELP WITH DINNER!” She yelled. I ignored her.

On the canvas lay a tiger sleeping in a meadow, the grass splitting in the background just enough to glimpse a fox sneaking up. Only, the tiger didn’t have stripes yet, and the fox was uncoloured, so the entire painting looked like a freaky rendition of a dead animal being overlooked by a spirit bear on the savannah. I had just begun working on the vined jungle trees.

I rose and opened the window, feeling uninspired as I passed the other canvasses leaning against my room’s blank, gray wall. Outside, a few younger kids played hockey in the street, pushing their puck--a tennis ball--around and around the cul de sac’s centre island. The trees rocked in a breeze, and one of the kids’ hats flew off, receiving the muffled screech of giddy joy. I shut the blinds. It was too cloudy for proper light anyway.

A little knock sounded at the door.

“Brother?” Marcy squeaked, creaking the door open slightly. Her large hazel eyes looked guild-ridden, her now clean and blonde hair still damp from the bath.

“What is it?” I asked, taking a seat beside my painting once again. She hurried in and leaped onto my lap.

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

I hugged her, “It’s alright! You wanted face paint, and you got it. Did you enjoy having a colourful unicorn face?”

“Hehe, yup!” Her little arms squeezed my neck. “Why does mommy never smile?”

“Because she’s angry.” I said. Mom had always hated my paintings, even anything I tried to do creatively ever since I’d begun middle school. Marcy said, “I like them.” She let go and turned to my current project. “What’s the tiger doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“What is that?” She pointed at the fox.

“It’s a sneaky animal coming to scare the tiger awake.”

Marcy laughed, “I thought it was a goldfish!”

Why? I don’t know. I could use the excuse that she was seven, and her creative mind was a little absurd, but that wouldn’t be true. Marcy was Marcy, she had always been a little odd. Like me.

“Well, it could be a goldfish…” I tilted my head sideways, “Can a goldfish be sneaky?”

Again, she giggled. I said, “I’ll show you the finished picture, ok? Go play outside with the other kids.”

“Okay!” She hopped off my knee and ran off. I turned back to the painting, once again ignoring my homework.

The next day after school I went back to the painting to find it gone from my little desk. The other pictures, previously leaning against the wall, were missing as well.

“Mom!” I called, racing back down the wood staircase, “Where are my paintings?”

Mom was peeling potatoes in the sink and paused when I came into the kitchen. Her green eyes said all they needed to.

“I got rid of them.”

I clenched my fists and swallowed my anger.

“Why?”

She shrugged and went back to peeling, “They were interrupting your schoolwork, and besides it’s a pointless thing to be doing with your time. You’ll thank me later.”

“Thank you? You really think I’ll thank you? Like when Dad left and you said ‘you don’t need a dad, you’ll thank me’ or when you didn’t let me start band because it’s another ‘pointless thing’? Have you ever, ever heard me thank you?”

She turned, ablaze, “No, I haven’t. I haven’t ever heard a single ‘thank you’ from you, your father, my parents… only Marcy ever voices her appreciation!”

We stopped, both surprised at the outburst and unsure of what to do, I ready to pummel something or break down into tears, she standing firm with that damn potato peeler. Mom straightened, said, “You’re in highschool now, David, you should be doing boyish things” and turned back to peeling.

“Mom, why don’t you like my paintings?” I asked, a little quieter for fear of unleashing the beast. She put her hands down to rest in the sink.

“Still with those damned things?”

She turned. I wanted to stand up to her, but she was terrifying. Seeing my fear, she softened and went back to the potatoes. It was irritating.

“I’m sorry you feel like I did a bad thing, but I didn’t.”

“Not for you!” My anger flared again. What right did she have to take my art? I was the creator, I should have had some say!

“Don’t get all relative on me, David, just… go back to your homework.”

I sizzled. “I’m starting to wonder what’s ‘worth it’ for you. Is it just studying and finding a job that pays more than what you get? Is it throwing your enjoyment and passion away for a damned robotic life? Because I want no part of that, Mom. No part!”

Mom tensed.

“You think I have time for ‘enjoyment and passion’? You think I’m some sort of robot?”

“That’s not what--”

She twirled. “Don’t fuck with me, boy! You’re smart enough to know that a good education is the only thing that’ll give you a good life, and damn it if I’m gonna encourage you to do pointless things like art!”

“You could at least let me enjoy art instead of squashing my talent like your parents did!”

That one hit home. Her expression shifted into unease. Regret. I had swung my bat too hard, and had hit not only the ball but the back catcher. She turned away and continued to peel potatoes. After a moment, I took out a knife and grabbed a potato.

“What are you doing?” She said tersely. She didn’t look at me.

“I’m helping with dinner” I said.

“Go do your homework.”

“That’s not important to me right now. I’m sorry I snapped, but I won’t stop painting.”

When I looked over, Mom had stopped peeling. There were tears in her eyes.

“I… I didn’t throw them away.” She muttered, “I like your paintings, David, but I want you to stay focused… I don’t want you to grow up like I did. They’re in the basement.”

I remained by her side. “Thanks, Mom.”

She smiled a little.

“I’m sorry too, for everything. I won’t stop you from painting anymore, but I do think it’s a waste of time. You can go paint, or do homework or whatever.”

That was good enough for me. Grinning, I replied, “I’m going to help you first.”

The next day was Saturday. Mom went to work and I had the day to paint. When she got home, Marcy and I were making KD over the stove.

“What are you two up to?” She asked, visibly tired. She slugged into the kitchen and peered into the pot. Proud, Marcy said, “We’re making dinner!”

Mom blinked, then went to put her keys away. I told Marcy to watch over the pot before racing to my room, bringing the finished--and dry--painting into the kitchen area.

“Mom, I finished my painting!” I said, holding it up to her. She looked at it unenthused, then her brow furrowed for a moment. Slowly, as though a great effort, a smile spread to her face.

“Cool tiger… is that a goldfish?”