Line by Line

This was probably around his 100th visit, and like the daily sunrise, he was never tired of it. He admired the museum campus’ modern design combined with its historic past and educational intention, providing a cultural space for kids and adults alike. The campus featured three museums of science, astronomy, and natural history, with open fields accented by flower beds, and a plentiful amount of viewpoints and walkways, tantalizing and intimidating visitors with the possibilities for exploration. It was breathtaking.

This investment in public spaces is why he was fond of cities such as San Francisco, New York City, and Seattle. Thousands of visitors every year from places he couldn’t locate on a map and children with enthusiasm he could only be envious of visited the lakefront campus and packed the marble grounds, especially during the summer. This time, however, it was a struggle to lay out a rough graphite sketch, an outline for his acrylic paint. The rich colors of the grass felt as meaningless as the whole pursuit itself. The once wide-open blue sky now may as well have been an oppressive judge, criticizing each move the artist made. It was breath taking. He couldn’t start.

He donned a light gray jacket and pants, complemented by a tired, yellow bucket hat that hid all evidence of his generational balding. His favorite pair of sandals bore all evidence of its history as it had permanent impressions of the bottom of his feet. He held his pencil by the very end of it, lightly as if anyone could slip it out of his hands without him knowing. 

“Are you okay grandpa?”

“I’m fine,” he replied irritatingly, snapping out of his gaze, not looking her in the eye. Of course he’s fine, it’s a nice day with a caressing breeze, why wouldn’t he be?

“As you always are” she replied back with a silent eye roll. It was their monthly “hangout” of painting together and even though he initiated these outings, she was always frustrated as this time to connect was usually reduced to silent painting as if they were playing the juvenile quiet game.  

She looked back to her own canvas. It was already complicated enough trying to establish scale between the buildings and the people, the least she thought he could do was not antagonize the one person he was painting with. 

Regardless, she would not let him bring her down this time, especially since she already postponed twice with her friends to accommodate him, this will not go down in flames. It fueled her prowess as she playfully confronted her canvas, marking the page without the shackles of critical judgment. Proportions weren’t perfect nor were the compositional elements eye-catching, but her satisfying and spiteful grin betrayed any attempt to hide her own emotions in the face of his degrading mood.

He glanced over, aware of the awkward tension he is used to creating, “uhhh…how’s school?”

“It’s fine,” she fired back.

“How’s your mom?”

“You can always ask her yourself, you know.”

The silence between them screamed louder than the children chasing each other in the adjacent field.

“Are you still dancing?”

“You already asked me this before, I haven’t danced for a while, not since middle school.”

“Mmm.” 

The number of times painting together certainly didn’t equate to emotional closeness. It was more similar to a “granddaughter is applying for an artist’s assistant position” than a conversation in exploring each other’s emotions. Surely there must be a golden question that will guarantee success.

“Why did you stop?”

“Hmm…just didn’t like it anymore.”

“I guess it runs in the family,” he thought to himself. What’s the purpose when the thing that brought meaning to your life, is now a source of anxiety? The pencil he was holding may as well have been on fire as he frantically dropped it into the grass. 

“Butterfingers.”

“Err the sun is a little bright, that’s all.”

“And last time was too dim,” she thought. “Maybe we should move somewhere in the shade…like under one of the trees?”

“The soil is uneven.” Each suggestion collided with his internal dialogue. What was the point of trying to paint anyways? He was no master, his paintings were not going to be prized possessions in a historic gallery. They were definitely not going to be worthy of the shelves of a secondhand store where social media influencers buy random paintings and adorn them with pop culture icons. Who is he painting for?

“For someone that traveled so much you sure like to stay in the same spot now. What happened with all of those paintings of New York? Seattle? Philippines? Those weren’t all in the same spot.”

He never liked it when she brought up his previous work. “I enjoy painting here now. It’s fine. Why change it?”

“Clearly it’s not fine, every time you want me to paint with you, you’re always miserable, it’s not fun. We can’t even paint in a different area of the park. I’m not in the first grade anymore.” She stopped sketching and stuck her confrontational eyes to him.

He finally made eye contact with her. She was taller than him by about an inch and comfortable in her athleisure joggers and jacket. However, none of this mattered as all he could feel was the resentment within himself.

“And why can’t you teach me so I can actually learn?”

He was never good at expressing his emotions, but maybe this would help her forgive him. He went over to her, “uhh…let’s look at the size of the building that you drew. Looking at the actual building, do you see how it’s about four or five times taller than this person standing here? Yours is too small.”

He drew on her canvas as she spoke, just basic landmarks to correct the varying scale of her drawing.

“Basically, slow it down, there’s no rush to finish.”

“Oh, thanks. Hmm, are you ever going to start drawing on your own canvas though? We’ve been here for a while now.”

“It’s not so easy to start sometimes.”

“But you did! Maybe you’re just bored or you hate-”

“I don’t hate making art.”

“I was going to say, maybe you hate yourself.”

He lifted and adjusted his hat, it was annoying how it was suffocating his skull. Why did they make hats so tight?

“When was the last time that you had fun?”

“Painting is fun.”

“If this is fun for you, then this explains a lot.”

“Watch what you say.”

“Sounds like there’s some emotional trauma that hasn’t been explored,” she said with a tilted head.

“Yeah, maybe it’s you.”

She turned to look at him, “alright, I’m leaving. I’m sure you can find someone else that you don’t want to talk to, to paint with.”

He hesitated, afraid to say anything. Before he could make a decision, she was already gone. Some time passed and nothing was drawn on his canvas. Her setup was still there, a constant reminder of what he had done. 

He sat down and flipped through one of his old sketchbooks. Although pages were filled with scenes from museums, downtown parks, and local libraries, as he turned the pages, the variety of locations started to dwindle until it was only around the museum campus. What were once fully rendered drawings, are now frail images, uninspired and monotonous. One drawing captured a little child pulling around their parents to the unknown.

He smiled, “I remember this…”

“Oh! So. Very good!”

An older gentleman with a friend appeared and they spoke in a language that the artist wasn’t familiar with. They gesture as if asking if he drew it. 

“Uhhh, my granddaughter did. She’s very talented.”

Despite the language barrier, they may as well have said in clear English, “I couldn’t draw to save my life.” Their voices trail off as they walk away. He’s unsure what they really meant.

“Thank you,” he said even though they were out of earshot.

He felt briefly proud and wanted to chase that feeling. Suddenly, he realized that she really was gone and that an hour had passed. Knowing her, she wouldn’t have gone so far as to go all the way home, especially to have left all of the supplies to be carried by himself. He tried calling and texting her but she didn’t answer.

“If she’s my granddaughter…” he mumbled.

He looked around hopelessly without a clear decision on where to move forward. The smells of restaurants close to the campus pervaded the park, musical notes were heard in the distance, dancing harmoniously with the rhythm of the wind, and the serene water of the lakefront was an inviting scene for any passerby. 

“It has to be the music.”

He packed up the canvases and their stands and the rest of the materials into a rolling bag. It was a little heavy, she made it seem so light when she pulled it around. 

After some effort, he stumbled upon the music for a public summer swing dance series that the city parks hosted. Dancers pushed and pulled each other around to the beat, oscillating like magnets with the same charge. Although the musicians were performing their job for the dancers, they radiated the same child-like innocence when playing, reaching a level of mastery only achieved through hours of practice. Even a Cattle dog was dancing, zooming around and in-between dancers, hopping to the beat. The dog exuded intoxicating energy as she was constantly greeted by others with smiles on their faces and a clapping of their hands.

That’s where he spotted his granddaughter, dancing with others hand-in-hand, enthralled by the music. He was in awe of her light steps, coordinated hands, and feet as she masterfully maneuvered around the dance floor, manipulating herself to the rhythm of the music.

He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he debated whether or not to approach his daughter on the dance floor. His toes tapped to the music and slowly reverberated up throughout his body, he would have to take the chance to be seen. Each inch onto the dance floor was too visible, too public. As he felt himself pull back to safety, his hand was grabbed by her. 

“I guess that’s good enough,” she said with a small laugh. She pulled him fully onto the dance floor, as a couple of others clapped, those close by who were watching him. It was awkward at first, but he started to loosen up a little as she encouraged him to hop to the beat, twirling and spinning each other around. He wasn’t fully open, but he adopted his own shy but still expressive style of swing dancing.

“Could we try painting again? I have a game we could play.”

“A game?”

“We take turns on a canvas, drawing one line. We keep doing that until we have a complete picture.”

“As long as you promise to hold a conversation with me.”

“I promise haha.

“It’s not going to look pretty y’know.”

“I guess that’s not what’s important.”

They found a table away from the music and he pulled out the supplies and materials. After some time, the canvas was filled with a cacophony of the family inside jokes, child-like monsters, and a symphony of colors that were both harmonious in some parts, and discordant in others. They burst into laughter as they finally looked at their masterpiece in all of its glory. 

“You need to allow yourself the chance to have fun again.”

“You’re probably right. Thanks for being so patient with me.”

“I am right! And I wasn’t patient, that’s why I left.”