The journey of an Artist
Blue walls
Jeremiah had spent two days staring, just staring at those blue walls.
He remembered, from so long ago, how he’d painted the walls of his studio that particular shade of light blue. How afterward he’d spent two happy days in them, sketching and painting, filled to the brim with inspiration.
Now, those walls were his prison.
Jeremiah tried not to cry as he sat down on the floor, as his trembling hands clasped a pencil, as he stared at the endless expanse of white canvas before him. After a few more moments of staring, he snapped the pencil in half, throwing it hard onto the floor, where it joined the dozens of others, each one a failed idea once pursued with such excitement.
He could feel the eyes boring into the back of his head. He was already picturing the painting, what had once been his greatest source of pride, now his jailor in this twisted jail.
In a rage, Jeremiah picked up the canvas and threw it across the room, knocking over the stand in the process.
He kicked,
he screamed,
he cried, until his throat got too dry and his feet hurt too much.
When he came to he couldn’t tell if the room had always been that way or if it had somehow gotten messier.
To his right was a medium sized brown leather-bound sketchbook. Slowly he knelt to the ground, picking it up with trembling fingers, flipping through the well-worn pages, each one dotted with simple sketches he’d done with such passion.
With a sob he let the sketchbook drop to the floor.With a sob he placed his head in his hands, letting the river of tears flow, Jeremiah couldn’t help but think, How did I get there?
“Thank you all for coming.”
Jeremiah surveyed the crowd, gathered in front of him. Each member of it displayed their wealth in their opulent clothes and jewelry.
They were all here for him.
No, not him. His artwork. The collection of twelve pieces hung up around news, the crown jewel of it all, hanging on the wall across from him.
“My name is Jeremiah Brunet, but you already know that.”
It was a cheap joke, but it got some laughs.
“I’m not much of a public speaker, so I’ll keep this short.”
More laughs. Jeremiah blinked, the dim light of the room seeming just a bit brighter than usual.
“I…I first started drawing because of my grandfather,” he paused, panicking for a moment before finding the right words. “He would always say that art is our way of showing how we see the world.”
Good, he thought. Keep going.
“Every Friday night, I used to watch him sketch and paint and create such beautiful pieces. But he never got the chance to share his work with anyone.”
“That’s why I began my journey as an artist, but I expected I would end up here.”
There was applause, some cheers. Jeremiah sighed deeply.
“So, grandpa, if you’re watching this, I hope I’ve made you proud.”
Even more applause. Even more cheers. Once again the party resumed as the crowd began chattering amongst themselves. Some of them
approached Jeremiah, patting him on the back, shaking his hand.
Each one of them at some point mentioned their name but he made no effort to commit them to memory.
Eventually he found himself face to face with one of his paintings. The crown jewel of his collection, in fact.
He’d called it the Sunset Scene, given it depicted a scene at sunset. Jeremiah could still remember how he’d painstakingly sketched out every part of the painting. How he’d spent days, watching the sun set over and over to get every detail right. How he’d spent days working on the colors, getting paint all over his hands, not caring that it would take hours to get the stains out.
And he still hadn’t gotten it right.
With a furrowed brow Jeremiah began making notes of all the places that could have been improved.
“Beautiful isn’t it.”
He whirled around to see a man in a green suit, who was also admiring the Sunset Scene. Jeremiah smiled, giving a small chuckle.
“It’s not my best work.”
“Well, then I look forward to seeing what comes next.”
The man in the green suit walked off, perhaps to admire another painting, but his words had already left an impact.
what comes next
The words echoed in his head. Jeremiah knew that no matter what, whatever came next would be his best work yet.
A few minutes later he had left the party, walking out of the gala, towards his studio, a few blocks down. Already, he was making sketches in his brown leather bound sketchbook.
“Care to explain what this is?”
Mr. Michaelson gestured at the medium-sized, brown, leather bound book on his desk.
“It’s a sketchbook,” Jeremiah answered plainly.
“I see,” Jeremiah’s teacher leaned back in chair. “This is where you put all the doodles you do in my class.”
Jeremiah gave a small nod, unsure of what to do.
“Tell me, Mr. Brunet, does my classroom look like an art room to you?”
Mr. Michaelson waved his hands at the rest of the classroom, dotted with various historical memorabilia.
Jeremiah shook his head.
For a few terrifying moments, his teacher stared at him intently, as if debating what punishment he should give the troublesome student before him, before finally giving a long sigh.
“Listen kid, you’ve already missed two weeks of school. I get it, you’re a good artist, but please, try to keep the sketch work outside of class.”
He slid the notebook forward, and Jeremiah took it gratefully, rushing out of the classroom.
Jeremiah carefully flipped through the sketchbook, making sure none of the “doodles”–as his history teacher would have put it– were damaged. He’d wanted so badly to scream, to cry, to let out all the emotions he’d been holding in for the past two weeks, but that wasn’t who he was.
Eventually Jeremiah found himself looking at the few sketches of the notebook’s previous owner. Slowly he flipped through, until his eyes landed on the words, Property of Allen Brunet, written on the inside front cover.
Jeremiah closed his eyes and the sketchbook. Clutching it tightly, he whispered softly, “I’m not going to lose you again.”
Jeremiah loved sunsets. To him, the sky was nature’s painting, and sunsets were its masterpieces. It was the easiest thing in the world for him to get lost looking up at them. At the reds, oranges, and yellows tinged with purple, slowly giving way to a starry expanse.
Nothing brought him more joy, and it was for that reason that Jeremiah loved going on walks with his grandfather.
Every Friday night, Jeremiah’s mother would drop him off at the small home with the light blue walls, where his grandfather spent half an hour getting his materials ready. Mostly he’d bring sketchbooks, but on rare occasions, like today, he’d bring his painting set.
The two walked their usual route around the neighborhood, arriving at the park just in time for the sunset.
And Jeremiah, like on so many other evenings before watched a master at work.
With wide-eyed fascination, he watched as his grandfather brought the scene before him to life. Every pencil marking painstakingly sketched out.
Each brushstroke perfectly planted in place.
By the time he was done, the sun had almost sunken below the horizon. Jeremiah had thought the painting looked amazing, but his grandfather’s brow was furrowed, and a frown was drawn across his face.
The two walked home in silence. When they got home, Jeremiah’s grandfather set the painting on his kitchen table, and went to put away his supplies. After a few moments, he returned, clutching a brown leather bound book, around the size of Jeremiah’s face.
Carefully he set it down on the table, looking at Jeremiah intently.
“Do you know what it is?”
Jeremiah shook his head.
“This is one of my old sketchbooks,” his grandfather gestured for him to pick it up, and Jeremiah did so carefully.
“Do you know why I draw? Why I paint?”
Again, Jeremiah shook his head.
“Well, how do I put this?”
Jeremiah’s grandfather stared off into a space for a moment, deep in thought.
“Art is meant…,” he trailed off, before catching himself again. “Art is meant to capture the way we see the world. But I’ve never been able to capture it just right.”
There was a pause, as his grandfather stared off into space again, before sighing deeply.
“I want you to draw the world, Jeremiah. To give it the justice I never could.”
Jeremiah looked down at the sketchbook, flipping through the blank pages, a million ideas hitting him at once.
Looking up, he made the promise he would attempt to keep for the rest of his life.
“I will grandpa. I will.”
Ishaan Reddy 