I was madly in love with him. He was too! But our love was like life, we knew it would end. We knew that one day, years later, if we heard each other’s name, it would feel like deja vu. So we would fight, and make love; he would paint while I wrote about stuff that did not matter to me, like cakes and dresses, when I should have been writing poetry and how I missed home every time it would rain. But emotions don’t fetch money and pay rent. It wasn’t difficult, it was just not the right time.
I met him for the first time at a meetup event for artists. Since I was new to the city, I figured it could be a good way to meet potential employers. It turned out to be a casual affair. I was disappointed and decided to exit this room stuffed with people moving in every random direction. I loathed the feel of hands and chests brushing through me with an occasional sprinkle of alcohol on my only expensive dress. I started feeling claustrophobic as my sense of direction had betrayed me. Suddenly I found myself next to the bar. My request for water wasn’t received very enthusiastically by the bartender so I ordered a glass of vodka which I gulped down in one go, and three more after that. My senses weren’t needed for the rest of the night anyway!
A continuous spiel caught my attention. I turned around to find a group of people gathered around a very serious one man show in play. I couldn’t make out the context immediately. He spoke passionately about his art and how it was our responsibility as a community to support and protect each other from the corrupt society we live in, and then he said, “A picture speaks a thousand words”.
During my days as a student at the art school, I had once argued with my professor that I thought otherwise. I had later written an entire essay and presented it at the annual art festival. It had been my agenda for the rest of my years at the university. There was huge debate that almost created a divide between the writers and painters (and photographers). That war never ended.
How could a picture be worth a thousand words? A picture is a mere distraction, a bait, an accomplice. That is why lengths of text are written to explain and appreciate a painting. It’s for people who do not wish to immerse themselves in anything more than a glance. It’s for decoration, like a trophy. It shows the owner’s wealth and obsession, not knowledge. No one asks you which painting has inspired you the most, they ask which book did! Words have power to change the course of time. They express a million emotions and thoughts. Paintings are beautiful, exquisite and magnificent; they invoke desire and awe for the more ornate chattels in life! But words, they invite passion and curiosity, they are fearless and immortal; they provoke thought and debate. Words are …
I realized in that moment that I did not want to debate that topic anymore. I did not feel the need to defend my thoughts. It could have been the vodka, with a hint of emotional maturity, but I felt proud about not being rebellious anymore. This thought mutated into a loud giggle, which was supposed to be confined to my thoughts. Everyone turned to me, annoyed, as if I had disrupted their state of trance. There was a question in the speaker’s eyes. I had little control over myself, but I did not want to leave that torture of a night feeling like a complete idiot, so I returned his glance with an invitation to a challenge.
“I would like to invite you to my apartment. You choose a topic, I will write a thousand words about it and then you will translate those thousand words into a painting”, as I said those words, I hoped it was all a dream and that I would soon wakeup in my matchbox apartment, impervious to the consequences of my possibly baneful wrangle.
By now, half of the room had our attention. Some laughed at my obviously impractical suggestion and others watched the scene in absolute silence. The music in the room was much louder now as the chatter had subsided. I could feel parts of my body melting. Everyone turned to him, anxious to hear the response. He took a deep breath and said, “let’s go”.
stereogramar 