Circles and Spheres

Miguel read the words again.

My son, whose passion for art never shone faintly, I leave it all to you.

His father always had a knack for surprises; Miguel managed a stifled laugh through the tears, though it quickly subsided. Pa’s absence was still fresh.

Sighing, Miguel closed the small, black notebook and let his eyes wander through the remains of his father’s kingdom. It was quite clear that no one had set foot in the attic for quite a while; a blanket of dust smothered the room, covering everything in sight. Towers of boxes, each filled to the brim with paints, dominoes of blank canvases stacked against the wall, every brush, frame and easel, now in a fresh coat of neglect. A bursting beam of light shot through the circular window etched into the wall, illuminating showers of dancing particles which had not yet settled.

Miguel watched for a moment, transfixed, staring through the dust and into the deep, blue sky, wondering if his father’s spirit was watching him back from up above – smiling, as he always did.

**********************************************************************

The man gave a hearty laugh and reared his head upwards to the ceiling. The boy he towered over stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Yes, my dear Miguel,” the man said, wiping a tear from his eye, “you’re part of the family now; did you think you were going to sleep in a barn? No, no, this room is for you – though, I hope you don’t mind sharing!”

“Sharing?”

“Yes, dear boy. You’re going to share this room,” the man replied, kneeling down to Miguel’s level, “with your brother.”

Miguel’s brown eyes lit up anew.

“A brother?”

“A brother,” the man's eyes were glittering, “ my biological child, Dallas – though no less important than you! He should be back from school any minute. You can meet him. I’m sure he’ll love you.”

Just then, the bedroom door burst open. Miguel whirled around. A pair of piercing, blue eyes were staring right back at him.

**********************************************************************

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

His head protruded from the trapdoor. Twenty years on and Dallas’ eyes still retained all their sharpness, though they had somehow lost their color, reduced now to a pale gray. His swept chestnut hair provided adequate cover for his gaze but did no good to hide the all-too-familiar curl of his upper lip.

“We all have our disappointments,” Miguel retorted, “for example, I expected to see you at the service today, but there was no sight of you.”

“I was there, just in the back. Didn’t want to be seen,” Dallas growled in reply, and, with that, he heaved the rest of himself up into the attic, kicking up a dusty sandstorm as he landed. Like Miguel, he wore black from head to toe. His eyes, like hummingbirds, seemed to dart across the room, hovering intently at one location, before quickly zipping along to the next. At one point, they zipped right back to Miguel, whose suspicious watch still hadn’t left him.

“What?” Dallas demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” Miguel responded, “I just didn’t expect to see you here either.”

Dallas hesitated.

“Thought I’d give the place one last visit. Before it gets cleared out”

“You want to clear it out?”

“Well, yeah,” Dallas scoffed, “He’s not using this junk anymore and despite your God-given talent with a brush, I’m quite confident in saying you won’t be using it either.”

“That’s true,” agreed Miguel, “but what about you?” Dallas – almost imperceptibly – flinched. But, as quick as it had come, it vanished, and his regular nonchalance resumed.

“Me?” Dallas said, laughing, “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m sure Pa would hate to see my untalented hands taint his cherished tools. No, we’re better off clearing this out. Who knows? We could even sell some of his work at a decent price. What about this one?” Within a second, he skipped across the attic to an easel with a sheet draped over it.

The sheet had clearly lain there for a long time; dunes of dust cascaded across its folds. Dallas reached out and pulled the cloth. It poured over the easel and spilled onto the floor, revealing the painting underneath. Miguel heard a sharp intake of breath coming from Dallas.

“What? What is it?” asked Miguel.

“What do you mean? Don’t you remember this?” said Dallas, unable to peel his eyes from the painting, “Fifteen years ago. Our last lesson. But – I didn’t know he kept it. Clients were quoting twenty grand; why would he keep it?”

**********************************************************************

It was a sweltering afternoon in the garden. The bougainvillea slouched lazily over the perimeter of the concrete wall. A shaggy-haired dog lay motionless, sunbathing, on the ground, surrounded by the uncut lawn. A cherry tree, in full bloom, stood tall in the middle of the lawn. On the veranda, the sun, though setting, continued to beat down onto its three victims. The oldest of which, standing in between the rest, seemed unfazed. The younger two, however, were clearly suffering, squirming in the sticky heat.

“Can we go inside yet?” Miguel whined from behind his canvas.

“No!” barked a second voice, its blue-eyed owner dashing his head round another canvas, “We have to finish our paintings first – Pa said so!”

“Patience,” their father chided, from behind his own project, glancing the brush in his left hand across the palette in his right, “Painting requires patience. It’s all well and good to show your love and passion in your work – all good artists do. However, what separates the good from the great is not a steady hand, but a steady mind. To spend countless hours practicing and developing your craft, honing your technique, refining your artistry with every stroke. That’s what makes a true artiste; master of his element.” And, timing the end of his lecture to great effect, he proceeded to pick up his easel and turn it around, revealing the fruit of his afternoon’s labor.

Like Miguel and Dallas, their father had also tasked himself with painting the garden. The colors were akin to the ones the boys had used: purple, green, pink and orange. But where the boys had chosen to simply recreate what they saw before them, their father had worked through a completely different lens. He had reimagined the scene as if looking through a kaleidoscope: various acute shapes combining in unexpected harmony. Vibrant triangles of magenta spanned the length of the painting, fading from the foreground to the background as they made their way towards the center, subsequently falling behind the earthy brown of the cherry tree. The tree stood proud in the middle of the canvas, surrounded by a sea of jade hexagons, infinite in number. The rose of the many leaves atop the tree was offset by a giant orb of flame, which was setting calmly in the background, casting the horizon into brilliant shades of violet. Even the dog was there; a collection of tiny golden triangles one-hundred-strong. The only difference, where their father’s imagination wandered further, was at the base of the cherry tree, where there were two silhouetted children. One sat at the foot of the tree watching the other child who was in mid-jump, reaching his hand far above his head, trying to pick a flower from a branch above.

“Good, eh?” he chuckled, amused with the stunned reactions of his children, “it will need some final corrections, but that can wait. For now, what do you have for me?” Miguel went first, much to Dallas’ disappointment – which he was sure to verbalize. After rebuking Dallas with another lesson about patience, his father went over to Miguel’s easel. His jaw dropped.

“My God, Miguel,” he whispered, “you somehow continue to outdo yourself with each new painting. Magnificent. Pay no attention to my work, Miguel; that was more abstract. As a naturalistic piece – this is just – it’s perfect. I cannot fault it; you truly are living up to your name! My own Michelangelo... Maybe next week you can experiment with some of my paints…”

As Pa continued to ramble on, Miguel watched Dallas out of the corner of his eye. Upon hearing Miguel’s praises, Dallas ran back to his station and had begun frantically making additions to his painting.

“A-A-A,” chided his father, now making his way over to Dallas, “time is up. Let me look." He leaned over and inspected Dallas' work. Dallas was shivering, eager with anticipation. After a few grunts and tuts, however, his anticipation was soon replaced with dread.

“Dallas,” began his father, “to be frank, this is not your best work. I know you care, son, I really do. I can see it. But it’s messy. There’s no cohesion. There’s no semblance of order. You’ve got to put in effort, Dallas; you can’t just slash at the page like this.”

Miguel had never seen Dallas so angry; not even when his brother shouted at Miguel for stealing Pa away from him. His eyes were brimming with tears. His face was flushed. With a great cry, he shoved his easel and sent it toppling over to the floor. The canvas gave a loud crack as it snapped in two.

Dallas ran into the house, up the stairs, into his room and slammed the door. Miguel heard the lock click shut and turned to look at his father who, for the first time ever, looked lost.

**********************************************************************

The beam of light had now swung itself onto Dallas’ face, and despite the fringe dangling in the way, Miguel could swear his brother’s eyes were bloodshot.

Still, Dallas could not peel his eyes from the painting.

“Why do you keep staring at it?”

Dallas snapped his head in Miguel’s direction. His eyes were definitely bloodshot.

“Why were you staring at the sky like an idiot when I came in?” he spat, “You were looking for him, right? Well – I am too. But he’s not in the sky. He’s here. In this. His art. That’s what remains of a man when he dies. His legacy. His touch. The color he brought to the world. That’s him. This is him. All of him…”

He dropped down to his knees and brought his head to his hands.

“I miss him. I miss Pa.”

Miguel heard Dallas sob for the first time in fifteen years. He went over to console his brother. He wrapped one arm around Dallas and pulled out the black notebook with the other.

“Dallas. Dallas, here,” Miguel implored, “Please, read this. This part here.”

Sniffling, Dallas wiped his eyes and focused his gaze on the page.

Miguel and Dallas, I entrust the two of you can figure out how to share the house. However you do it, just don’t squabble, alright? All under its roof is yours to share – except the attic.

Dallas: the attic, all that’s in it – the paints, the brushes, that piece I know you loved – it’s yours. My son, whose passion for art never shone faintly, I leave it all to you. It’s never too late. The first step is always the hardest. I believe in you.

After a long silence, Dallas spoke.

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“He left it all to me, not you. Why?”

“Come on, Dal. He said so himself; he saw how much you care.”

Dallas was wiping away the waves of tears, but Miguel still saw a small smile begin to form.

“So, do you still want to sell it?” Miguel asked.

“What?”

“The painting. Still want to sell it? Twenty thousand’s a big number.”

“Oh gosh, no,” Dallas chuckled, “it’s too special. No, no. I’ll keep it. I already have a spot in mind…”

Dallas gave a hearty laugh and reared his head upwards to look at the painting. Clutching onto his brother tightly, Dallas cried for his hero, his idol, that he still loved his son.