The Emotions That Speak

“This art lacks life! You’ll never succeed, not like this.” Father threw the painting on the ground.

My hands were clenched, and my clothes were dirty with the smell of rustic paint. I’ve spent hours on it, trying to make it seem alive. I lived for art; it was my passion, but according to everyone else, ‘it was only a passion, not a talent.’

Father was still upset. “Go find a real job, you can’t stay here and work on those fantasies of yours forever.”

Father couldn’t stand it when I made art. I didn’t know why. Mother used to be an artist, until she passed away. After that, my father discarded all of the paintings in the house. They were beautiful works, but for some reason he just couldn’t stand looking at them. I guess that must’ve been the reason.

I sighed, picking up the painting. I looked at it. It was there, but it did indeed lack emotion. What was I doing wrong? I had the technique down, but it just missed a key ingredient. I set the painting down next to my other ones, ‘One day, I’ll have people recognize my work.’

The next morning, the sun rose slowly and the early birds chirped in the morning dew. I opened my eyes as the light from the window entered. It was to be the day of my first job. Father had told me to find a part-time job, and I got one at the old art gallery down in the Urbans.

I biked down the street. The job was easy enough to get because no one wanted to work at an art gallery that was practically abandoned. It had been in the town so long people just didn’t pay attention to it anymore.

This part of town was kinda scary. I locked up my bike near the back door of the gallery. The gallery was a big brown building with vines crawling around. It was not modern at all. I liked that though. Society doesn’t care enough to get rid of it, so it remains downtrodden after all these years.

I really didn’t know what to expect. I walked inside and was greeted by an old man.

“You must be that young employee they were talking about,” he said. “I’m Mr. Jones, but just call me Dan.”

Carrying around that broom, Dan looked like the janitor. “You can start right away. There is a back room where all the supplies are,” he said.

I nodded.

Today was a Monday, and we weren’t open on Mondays, but I got to work cleaning up. The gallery was quite big. I looked at the paintings and artworks and they all seem so…sophisticated. It was like each one had its own backstory.

Inside the room, there were some cleaning supplies. I grabbed a rag and coughed when dust flew out. Then, something caught my eye. In the corner of the room, there was a painting. Why would there be a painting there? I walked towards it and wiped the dust off the surface of the frame. It was a portrait of someone.

To my great surprise, it looked quite similar to me. It was a portrait of a young boy who was frowning with such sadness. I picked it up. It amazed me, the details, the strokes, everything. Although it didn’t look quite finished, I wondered who the artist was, but there was no signature or label. Maybe someone donated it? I placed it back down when I heard my name being called by Dan. I should get back to work and not be distracted, but I glanced back at it one more time before leaving.

My shift was over. I was feeling a bit tired, but it wasn’t so bad. The place was quiet and had a homey feeling. I entered the room where I started to put my cleaning supplies away when I noticed something about the painting. I walked closer to examine it. The face – it seemed to have somehow changed. It was sad before with a big frown. Now, it was showing a normal stoic expression. Was I remembering it wrong? I swear I didn’t. Something was off, but what?

I wondered, ‘Would anyone notice if I took the painting home?’ It was just sitting here like it was left to rot anyways. They’ve got plenty of other artwork. I stuffed the painting in my backpack and left.

I biked back home. My father wasn’t there, like usual. He was never home. He didn’t even care when I got my job and told me, “It didn’t even pay well.”

I was angry at that. Why does he have to decide what I do? He’s barely in my life. I walked upstairs into my room. Closing the door behind me I put the backpack on my bed. I unzipped it and was in shock. The painting… the face – it was mad. It bore a very frustrated expression.

There’s no way I was imagining things. My emotions were changing it to what I was feeling! This could be a life-changing discovery… but how did that work? Would people really believe it if I told them? Not my father, not Dan, and I didn’t really have friends. I guess I was alone on this one.

Every time I was feeling a certain emotion, the face of the painting would imitate it. I needed to figure out how this was working. I tried searching for the painting’s origin online, but there was not a single word about it.

Days passed, and I couldn’t figure out a single detail about that painting. It was so frustrating. It felt so useless, a big waste of my time, but… I just couldn’t give up now. I was about to search again, but heard my father coming up to my room to check on me. Why would he do that?

He opened my door. “You haven’t left your room for a while. What are you doing?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just…painting,” I said

He stepped into the room, his eyes landing on the stolen painting. “Did you paint that?” He gazed at it with a judgemental gaze. “It seems impassive.”

I gritted my teeth. How could he say that? There was such emotion in it, I mean, it was practically elated. Was he blind?

“Listen to me! Drop the art and find a real job. I mean it. One that pays well. Get married and live a normal life. You’ll never succeed on your current path.” Before he closed the door he looked at the painting again. “That painting is mighty familiar, though.” He hesitated before leaving. “Have I seen it somewhere before?”

I sighed, maybe he was right. I picked up the painting and the emotion changed again. Now it was frowning, like when I first found it. How could he not see that? How could no one see that? It doesn’t matter what others think. I have potential. I know it. The emotions spoke to me, the art was calling me.

I went to work like usual and everything seemed fine. No one noticed the painting in the back room was missing, just as I assumed. Still, I felt bad for stealing it. What if it was meant to be here? Like this was its home.

I shook that feeling away. After all, It was just a painting. It’s not like it felt anything. I shook my head again, “No!” Now I was thinking like my father. I felt bad. Maybe I should just return the painting.

I walked over to Dan. He was sipping a cup of coffee and leaning against a table. “Hey uh…I noticed a painting in the back room and it was super dirty so I brought it home to clean.” I was really nervous and felt he could see right through me. “l can bring it back tomorrow.”

Dan looked confused. “What painting?”

Was the painting so forgotten that even Dan didn’t know that it existed?

“The portrait, y’know? The one that looks a bit like me.”

He shrugged. “Never seen anything like you’re describing,” he said looking at me like I was mental or something.

Seriously? If no one knows about it, then I might as well keep it without feeling so guilty.

Dan looked at me in a concerned manner. “Boy, I’ve noticed some strange things about you since you started working here.” He paused. “Have you ever noticed you talk to the paintings like they’re humans? I mean, don’t you think that’s a bit strange?” he said, noisily slurping on his coffee.

Now I should be concerned and I did sigh while walking away, but then I thought, ‘I don’t care what he thinks. He could make fun of me all he wants for all I care. I know what I saw in that painting.’

Several weeks passed and I became obsessed with trying to understand the painting. I didn’t draw anything else; In fact, I barely focused on anything else. All I could think about was that painting. I knew that painting was special. I just knew it!

I had the painting sitting on a shelf now where I could see it properly. I would always take a good look at it before leaving my room. You know, to see the expression on it. This morning I walked downstairs to go to my job and tried to get it out of my mind.

When I arrived home, and went back to my room, something was off. The painting was on the floor and the frame had shattered. I was frantic. How could this have happened? I don’t have a pet, my father was never home, and the door to the house was locked. Then I saw the window was wide open. It was a windy day today, so I’m guessing the wind must’ve knocked it down.

I rushed over to pick up the frame. The glass was scattered everywhere. When I was picking up the glass, I saw something in the painting’s eyes. It was something I felt I had been missing all along. I carefully took the painting out of the frame. I turned it over and I could now clearly see the letters on the back of the painting. The bottom corner of the painting had some faint letters written on it. To my great shock – It was my mother’s name! She was the artist all along!

All this time I’ve been imagining the emotions; while running from the truth. I clutched the painting and took a deep breath remembering my mother’s words, “Don’t force the brush on paper… Let it do its own job.”

Seizing the moment I grabbed a paintbrush and set my life-less looking painting on an easel. I was going to fix my own mistake. Using my mother’s advice I painted with passion. I didn’t force the brush and it began moving on its own. My mother was right. I kept on painting, letting my passions move the brush. I wanted to show my father I was capable of something worthy. Art was something I did, it was a part of who I was and he needed to see that. I was really painting like a true artist now. After adding a few subtle touches, the painting came to life. It captured the eyes with its vivid colors and real-life emotions. It was a true masterpiece. All I needed to do now was wait for father to come home and see it.

I waited patiently for father to come home, and then came that knock on the door. I hesitantly opened it.

There father was, standing in the doorway holding an old, dirty apron. “Hey, look kid. I’m sorry. I’ve realized I’ve always been harsh on you.” He seemed different as he spoke, “You’re still young. I mean, you’re still learning.” He paused to think of something to say next. “You still have time to improve. I guess what I’m trying to say is If art is what you want to do, then you should do it.”

I just looked at him, ‘Is this my father?’

“But do it right,” he then gave me the apron. “Here, this was your mother’s; I want you to have it.” He then handed me the old-looking, dirty apron.

I grabbed it and saw the splashes of paint on it. “Thank you.”

Father looked behind me at the painting I had redone, and he smiled. His eyes lingered on the painting, and for the first time, this wasn’t a gaze of disappointment. “Look at that, now you’re getting it.” He seemed genuinely pleased. “You know, your mother used to talk to her paintings as if they were real people when she painted them. I remember she had a painting just like the one over there. She would say the emotions changed based on who was seeing it. That was quite a piece; she never finished it though.”

Father had a quizzical look on his face. “I thought it was silly at first, but now I realize how right she was, and how talented she had made you, my son.”

I smiled back at him with pride, yet I couldn’t help wondering why he had opened up to me today, of all days. He left my room leaving me with a feeling of ease and self-confidence. I looked back at the painting. It was then that I found the key ingredient I was missing – Devotion.

The next day at work, Dan asked me if I did any art.

I told him that I did and that I would bring my latest piece to show him tomorrow.

When I brought him the piece he loved it so much that he wanted to give me some space for it in the local artist’s section in the gallery.

I was overwhelmed. “My piece?” I never thought of ever displaying one of my works in a gallery.

Dan smiled. “Well, you seem like the talented type. A bit odd perhaps, but you shouldn’t be afraid to show your emotions. After all, people ought to express themselves in all forms of life.” He patted my shoulder, leaving me standing there.

It was a lot to consider. ‘Would people really like my work? What if they thought it was emotionless, like what my father used to say?’ I quickly let go of that feeling. If I learned anything about this whole ordeal it’s that I shouldn’t seek approval that way. I wasn’t sure what else to submit. Most of my work just didn’t seem as worthy as the one I showed Dan.

I had to give Dan my best work if I wanted the opening day viewing to be successful. This was my time to shine. After all, I had always dreamed of people huddled over my art, looking on in amazement, looking at a painting painted by me.