For Art's Sake

He came into the café where I worked every day at 2pm. Every day at 2pm he drank a cup of coffee. Black and it must have been cold, for he sat with his back to the counter, staring through the window. Staring out the window for a half an hour at least before taking a sip. And then he would draw on napkins, ten at least, sipping his coffee as if he were taking a drag on a much needed cigarette. Day after day, and not much was said. It was nice when he came, like routine. I looked forward to his long mess of dark curls and somber brown eyes, nothing particularly attractive, but I liked something about him. It was the day he had a fire in his eyes that I started to notice. The day he drank his coffee hot and blinked nearly not at all.

Cup in both hands, shoulders hunched, sipping.

He finished the cup and took my hand, paying for the cup with a tip too.

He did not say a word.

He just grinned and looked into my eyes, my cheeks mirrored the fire in his eyes.

Then I started to notice.

I noticed when he was gone. His normal chair would draw my eyes as if it were covered with blinking neon lights with music.

He skipped a day and he seemed different.

He skipped two days and seemed paler somehow.

Then he came and his hair was shaved.

Then the circles beneath his eyes looked as if they would swallow his brown eyes.

One more day, he came in, thin and muttering.

I was afraid, I didn’t want to look at him anymore.

All I heard him say was “turned to brown. Masterpiece, but it’s all brown.”

Then I saw the ambulance and police cars, and his pale thin body rolled out on a stretcher.

I guess the day he tipped me was the day he went mad.

The day he decided to use his blood for paint.

The day he made paint brushes from his long dark hair.

The day he died, he must have run out of paint.

The paint turned brown, and he just couldn’t keep it alive.

So at 2pm, I take my break and drink a cup of coffee, cold, and look out the window.

I don’t know if he was from this city, or this country, or what his name was. He never said much of anything.

I don’t look out the window to find out why he did it.

Not to go mad like they say he did.

Every day at two I think of a man I never knew. Every day at two I remember a person that others may forget or never know, filling the chair that was once filled by him. I look out the window and doodle on napkins drinking my cold black cup of coffee; not to go mad like he.

But for his sake.

For art’s sake.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/aravis121/

But WHO will finish my meals?!

But who will finish my meals?

I thought as Adam walked out of my apartment. I find it odd that this was the first thought to enter my mind. I really love Adam, I mean, not in the boyfriend-girlfriend way, in a sibling type way.

           

I guess I should explain my question…

I am what people call a “foodie”; someone who loves really good food. I’m the someone that people call when they want to know a good place to eat or drink. That crazy food lover who writes a column in the local newspaper about food; that’s me. But there’s something that really bothers me about my being a foodie, and that is my miniature appetite. I just don’t eat very much, I can never finish my food, and I don’t do left-overs. Watching that beautiful food go to waste always brings my a little sadness to my heart.

            That’s how I met Adam. I was out alone, trying out the pub food at a small local Irish pub I had never been to. So I sat at the crowded bar, elbow to elbow with my neighbors. It was the classic problem: I’m right handed and Adam, sitting on my right, is left handed. After knocking a couple of bites off of each-other’s forks, we started to chat.

Adam is a foodie too. I mean, not professionally like me, he doesn’t write a column or anything, but he knows and loves food. We had been to many of the same places but never met before.

When we had chatted a while, I noticed Adam was done eating. I looked longingly at his gloriously clean plate, nothing wasted, and then back to my half eaten dinner.

“Adam..” I began “would you like to…would you like the rest of my food?” I looked into his eyes eagerly.

“Sure,” was all he said.

I slid my plate over excitedly; it was instant friendship.

I could sample glorious foods and have the satisfaction of nothing going to waste!

            Adam and I became foodie friends. We knew all of the best places to eat, and those places knew us too. We talked of our love of food, music, art and legos. We shared a love of over-tipping our servers and of rich, dark beers. So much in common, yet we never considered romance.

            I wouldn’t say I’m lonely. I have my cat, Fred William the third, and I have my newspaper column, but it was really nice to have Adam.

           

So here I am. Standing alone in my apartment. Adam just told me that we couldn’t go on frequent foodie dates anymore.

            Apparently Adam was lonely. Apparently Adam likes me in a girlfriend-boyfriend way and he knew I didn’t reciprocate.

So Adam found a girlfriend.

Now Adam can take her to places we found and order off the menu for her. Now he can eat her left-overs, leaving two happy, clean plates.

And here I am left wondering, who will finish my meals

The Red Balloon

It’s a secret pleasure: letting balloons go into the sky. There is something exhilarating about sending something flying—defying nature’s tendency to hold us firmly to the ground. The balloon simply floats up, not worried about where it is going. Does it pop before it exits the ozone layer? Most likely. But there is something particularly enthralling about imagining balloons out in space; drifting to another planet, another galaxy, along with thousands of other balloons.

Balloons freed accidentally by small children who shed a tear in their absence.

Balloons let go for the mere pleasure of watching them sway and drift with the wind until they disappear.

Balloons released to celebrate a great achievement.

Balloons let go in a graveyard with notes attached for loved ones lost.

There is a scene at the end of the 1956 version of the French film ‘Le Ballon Rouge’ where hundreds of balloons are flying through the air. It mimics a graceful and sublime ballet. One cannot help but watch, transfixed. I can recall the disheartening feeling when that balloon string slips from inattentive fingers and floats to the heavens. Then, an older sibling or my mom would always say, “Look at it go! Lets watch it until it disappears,” and everyone would become silent and pensive, watching that object of child fancy become an infinitesimal speck.

In a thousand years, we may be exploring outer space only to find an entire planet with inhabitants who have made it their purpose in life to collect these strange floating forms. They study their lifespan and how they shrivel with age. The motion of the balloons mystifies these analytical creatures; where do they come from?

Interestingly, after thinking about balloons, I realize that often it is the simple things that cause me to stop and reflect. It is life’s way of telling me to slow down to allow my mind to wander from my ‘to do’ list momentarily. How can one think of sorrow or worry while looking at a balloon? The small, seemingly unimportant things are what keep the human race from running themselves into the ground. 

Why am I writing about balloons and distant planets? I feel it says something about me, the way I think. Art is like my red balloon. In a busy life with so much rush, hurry and ambition, art makes me stop and listen, not just with my ears, but with my eyes and mind as well. I see it everywhere, in the sway of a lonely flying balloon, in the curves of the shadow cast by a head of curls, in the button nose of my sister; things seemingly trivial, but they inspire my stories and drawings and songs. They keep my mind awake and exited; looking for the next inspiration that could be anything. I like to think that finding inspiration in the familiar, simple things makes my work relatable. I want to inspire the people around me, and an important part of achieving that is making my work relevant to people’s lives.

Art Work: Banksy