The Painter

I like to take be outside when I take my lunch break. In California, it’s always nice to get a break from the office to get some fresh air. There are always things to do and calls to make, but sometimes I just need a breather. I take out my little black moleskin book. I know, I take out this tiny little book of notes of things that I need to get done for personal reasons or marketing firm related shenanigans.

Yes. I work for a marketing firm. It’s pretty much my life. No children. Parents live in Maine. No siblings. Grandma got the book for me for Christmas one year. She knows how much I like to jot things down and take notes.

“Scotty boy, I know you’ll use it! You’ve always got your head in a notebook. It’s a little something.” She told me in her nasal voice.

Okay, I can be old-fashioned when it comes to certain things. Reminders in my phone don’t work. I am not really big into digital technology. I use my MacBook and my iPhone all day for work. When I’m not at work I like to do things the old-fashioned way with a proper ballpoint pen and a little notebook.

I’ve always been good at observing people. Every day for the past year, I watch this man walk to the park near my office so he can create something extraordinary.

This old man, he is very interesting. He’s got this long white beard. His clothes are always loose and wrinkled. No, he doesn’t wear a beret like your typical French artist. He takes his very old, ragged leather suitcase and drags it to this open area near the water fountain. His view is the horizon, the sun cloaking the grass and trees, the people sitting outside on their blankets laying down, the dogs running around in circles. It’s just plain beautiful; a peaceful sight.

He unzips this massive suitcase, takes out an easel, takes out a foldable chair and some brushes, paint, and one of those boards’ artists put their paint on. He sets up his easel and takes out a canvas. The canvas is unfinished. He delicately untwists his paints and carefully squeezes the paints out. He puts the paint on his board. He takes an empty Campbell’s soup can out of his baggy pocket and fills it up with his Arrowhead Springs bottle of water. The last thing he does is takes his hat off, flips it over and lets it rest near his station. Sometimes people stop and watch him paint. They leave some change or a couple dollars.

He never says much. He makes sure that he places his hat in front of him so he can see when people are putting something in. I can’t even tell if he thanks the people. I’m not exactly five feet away from him. More like fifteen feet.

It’s a park so there’s always little kids running around playing cops and robbers or whatever it is they play these days. Kids running, dogs running, balls shooting through the air, but it doesn’t faze this guy at all. This man is completely enthralled in his art. It must be nice, eh? In a world filled with endless distractions, this man is never troubled by anything but his art. I’ve never seen such concentration.

I can’t even get a solid conversation with my co-workers without them being distracted by Joel who always lurks around the cubicles eavesdropping on people for ideas and then taking them as his own, or Anna constantly jabbing her thumbs on her phone as she talks to people. It’s like an excuse. She wants people to think she’s busy, but really, she’s checking her feed on Tweetbox during work time. Or is she? It’s like she’s waiting for a long-lost lover to respond to a letter she wrote two years ago. These people drive me mad.

I see this guy set up in the same way every single day. He’s older. I’ve walked by his paintings a couple of times. He’s good. He kind of reminds me of a mix between Monet and Van Gogh. It’s like if they lived at the same time and collaborated on one huge canvas, it would look like this guy’s painting. He sure does look like a grumpy old man though. You could tell just by looking at him that the years have treated him not so well. He walks very slowly and with a sort of limp in his step, but he perks up pretty well when he paints. Sometimes, I get a glimpse of his face when he turns around or gets up to walk around from sitting so long. He always looks sad to me. Most artists tend to have social issues. That’s why they bury themselves in their art, or at least, that’s what I think.

As he dips his brush in the water, the rest is history. It is just him, the scenery and his painting. He sees nothing else.

“Crap! I’ve got to get back to work.” I blurted out as I look at my watch.

I close my notebook, drown myself in my second cup of coffee and head out. Work is always tough. Usually, I feel like a completed pressure cooker by the end of the day. The creative team meetings can be unending. The time for me to actually create content is always disrupted by my team always asking me for suggestions or Haley needing advice on her love life with her 5 year live in boyfriend who, did I mention is an unemployed musician? She complains to me like clockwork almost every Thursday saying that she doesn’t think he cares about her after all she does for him. Yada yada yada… What is Thursday, like her self-reflection day?

I feel like saying to her, “Yes, Haley. Why are you supporting this guy if you don’t think he cares about you?”

Not my problemo. Listen, I really don’t care about your personal problems, okay? This is why there are professional people called social workers. If you need advice, go talk to them. Come on, it’s covered by the insurance!

As I clean up my desk to get ready to leave, I hear my boss talking to Mitch about a new proposal for a potential client.

“Scotty, come here a second. I want you to look this over.” He tries to get me into his office.

“Hey, I’ve got an appointment tonight. Leave it on my desk and I’ll take a look at it tomorrow. Have a nice weekend, Bob.” I said to my boss as I was walking out the door.

It’s I didn’t really have an appointment. It is Friday and it’s 6:15 and I’m out. Sunset in California is beautiful. The busting breeze is so refreshing, and I am going to just get a head start on the weekend. There is this coffee shop that I like to go to after work to get my third cup of coffee. The third cup is my sit-down-and-relax cup of coffee. The first two are “Scotty, wake up,” and “Scotty, pull through the afternoon slump,” to get me going at the firm. The coffee shop is adjacent to the park.

`I see the old man again. He has really progressed with his painting. Shit. It’s beautiful. When I look at it. I stop. Something is compelling me to just stand there. Not a care in the world about what I’m going to do or what I’ve done. I’m just there, looking, admiring this painting.

I go up to the man and say, “Hello, I’ve noticed this painting and it is just breathtaking!” I exclaimed. He looks at me.

“Thank you.”

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Theo Silvestrino.” He muttered in a deep, smooth voice.

“Hello, Theo. Nice to meet you.” I said.

He put his brush down and he just looked at me for a quick second with his cigarette in his mouth.

“Would it be a bother if I asked if it is for sale?” I asked.

“No. I don’t sell this.” He said as he was smoking a cigarette while

stroking his brush.

“Oh man, are you sure? I’d give you a really good price. I really appreciate art.”

He ignored me. I placed my hand in the air to give a quick wave.

“Good evening then, sir.” I dropped something into his hat.

The next day, at lunch. I walked up to him. He was working on the same painting.

“Hi Theo, it’s Scotty. I was the one who asked you about your painting yesterday.” I waved at him to get his attention.

“I told you, it’s not for sale! I don’t sell. I paint.” He affirmed.

“I get it.” I politely uttered.

It's ok. I felt bad for him. It looked like he is holding on to something much deeper than his painting.

What he didn’t notice was that at work I wrote a check made out to Theo Silvestrino. In the memo I wrote, “beautiful painting.” I make a lot of money from my job. I’ve been watching this man paint for almost a year now. The way he paints is like him showing that this is the only thing in his life that he has and that he cares about. I dropped the check in his hat. I figured that painting is worth a good twenty thousand dollars.