The Paper of His Skin 1/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:28:37 UTC
When he was ten, John's grandmother gave him an artist's tool kit.
It came in an old and heavily-polished wooden box. It had a golden clasp that clicked into place when pressed against with both thumbs. John's thumbs were too small and too weak to close it at the time, so he had to get his grandmother to do it. She didn't mind.
Inside, John's grandmother had filled it with charcoal and graphite sticks, with pastels and coloured pencils, with watercolours and acrylic paints. There were wooden paintbrushes, their bristles clean and soft against John's skin. There was a pad of sketching paper, and two small stretched canvases. Everything was crisp and new and colourful.
“This is for grown-up artists, my love,” John's grandmother had told him as he sat in her lap. His hands were buried inside the wooden box, scattering graphite sticks and paint tubes. They rattled around the bottom of the box, rolled from one end to the other. John giggled.
“None of the other children are as lucky as you are,” John's grandmother told him. “None of them had grandfathers who loved to paint like yours did. None of the other children will grow up to be famous painters like you.
She told him, “None of them will ever make their grandmothers as proud as you make me.”
“My little artist,” she called him, and kissed him on the cheek.
John's father took the kit away from him that night, before dinner.
John cried and followed his father down the hallway to the cupboard. His father shoved the box away, up on the top shelf where John couldn't reach it. Even if he pulled one of the chairs from the kitchen down the hallway, even if he stood up on his tiptoes, he wouldn't be able to reach it.
“Stop crying,” John's father yelled at him. “Painting never did my father any good and it won't do you any good, either.”
₪₪₪
Ten years later and John is standing in his mother's kitchen again.
He stands perfectly still in his pressed black suit and shiny shoes while Harry cries against her mother's shoulder. There's a small crowd of people behind him pretending not to notice. They pick white, wiry dog hairs off their black trousers and off the hems of their black dresses. The dog weaves through their feet, tail wagging.
“There's something for you,” John's mother says a few minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “In the cupboard. I think he left it for you.”
Harry watches, leaning against the wall as John drags the wooden box off the top shelf in the cupboard, standing on his the tips of his toes. The contents rattle inside as John lowers it down to the ground. John bends over the box, flicks open the clasp and looks inside.
Everything is the same as it was ten years ago. And at the same time, everything is different.
John closes the box and snaps the clasp shut with one thumb.
“How come you didn't say anything?” Harry asks him. He blinks at her shoes, and she continues. “At Daddy's funeral. How come you didn't say anything?”
John pauses. He thinks about it and can't come up with an answer. Instead, he looks back down at the wooden box and says, “Thanks, Dad.”
John grabs the box and leaves.
₪₪₪
In between classes, John sketches in the park.
He sketches the children playing, the mothers pushing their baby prams, the old men feeding the ducks at the pond, and the dogs chasing after balls and flying discs. He draws the trees, the benches, the fountain, the buildings on the opposite side of the street. He shades in the brickwork with the edge of his graphite stick. His fingers leave dark smudges across the page.
John gives them silly, simple little titles. “The Running Dog”, or “Laughing Children”. One he calls “Incredibly Pregnant Woman”, and another he calls “Old Man Pretending to Be Asleep”.
It came in an old and heavily-polished wooden box. It had a golden clasp that clicked into place when pressed against with both thumbs. John's thumbs were too small and too weak to close it at the time, so he had to get his grandmother to do it. She didn't mind.
Inside, John's grandmother had filled it with charcoal and graphite sticks, with pastels and coloured pencils, with watercolours and acrylic paints. There were wooden paintbrushes, their bristles clean and soft against John's skin. There was a pad of sketching paper, and two small stretched canvases. Everything was crisp and new and colourful.
“This is for grown-up artists, my love,” John's grandmother had told him as he sat in her lap. His hands were buried inside the wooden box, scattering graphite sticks and paint tubes. They rattled around the bottom of the box, rolled from one end to the other. John giggled.
“None of the other children are as lucky as you are,” John's grandmother told him. “None of them had grandfathers who loved to paint like yours did. None of the other children will grow up to be famous painters like you.
She told him, “None of them will ever make their grandmothers as proud as you make me.”
“My little artist,” she called him, and kissed him on the cheek.
John's father took the kit away from him that night, before dinner.
John cried and followed his father down the hallway to the cupboard. His father shoved the box away, up on the top shelf where John couldn't reach it. Even if he pulled one of the chairs from the kitchen down the hallway, even if he stood up on his tiptoes, he wouldn't be able to reach it.
“Stop crying,” John's father yelled at him. “Painting never did my father any good and it won't do you any good, either.”
₪₪₪
Ten years later and John is standing in his mother's kitchen again.
He stands perfectly still in his pressed black suit and shiny shoes while Harry cries against her mother's shoulder. There's a small crowd of people behind him pretending not to notice. They pick white, wiry dog hairs off their black trousers and off the hems of their black dresses. The dog weaves through their feet, tail wagging.
“There's something for you,” John's mother says a few minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “In the cupboard. I think he left it for you.”
Harry watches, leaning against the wall as John drags the wooden box off the top shelf in the cupboard, standing on his the tips of his toes. The contents rattle inside as John lowers it down to the ground. John bends over the box, flicks open the clasp and looks inside.
Everything is the same as it was ten years ago. And at the same time, everything is different.
John closes the box and snaps the clasp shut with one thumb.
“How come you didn't say anything?” Harry asks him. He blinks at her shoes, and she continues. “At Daddy's funeral. How come you didn't say anything?”
John pauses. He thinks about it and can't come up with an answer. Instead, he looks back down at the wooden box and says, “Thanks, Dad.”
John grabs the box and leaves.
₪₪₪
In between classes, John sketches in the park.
He sketches the children playing, the mothers pushing their baby prams, the old men feeding the ducks at the pond, and the dogs chasing after balls and flying discs. He draws the trees, the benches, the fountain, the buildings on the opposite side of the street. He shades in the brickwork with the edge of his graphite stick. His fingers leave dark smudges across the page.
John gives them silly, simple little titles. “The Running Dog”, or “Laughing Children”. One he calls “Incredibly Pregnant Woman”, and another he calls “Old Man Pretending to Be Asleep”.
He signs his name in the corner.
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