It started off with doodles of clouds in the margins of his textbooks. Fluffy swirls done in black ink, like storm clouds rolling in to cover the boring text blurbs on formaldehyde and preservation. Sometimes the ink would bleed and suddenly, his little clouds began to rain. Eventually, a house rule was set in stone to stop the young boy from drawing in the books and like a plea deal, his parents settled on providing him scrap newspaper to practice the silly hobby.
His father shakes his head in disappointment, hands stuck together and shoulders tense. Mother clicks her tongue and turns around, looking out the window for some refuge.
"You cannot expect to make any money from the arts," begins his father.
It is a rant he has heard time and time again. There is no money in the arts and therefore, it is pointless to pursue what they believe to be a waste of time.
"I know but-"
His mother interrupts, "- your father is right, August. We have set up a very comfortable future for you. The funeral industry will always be in demand so long as we stay organic. What more could you possibly want?"
"Well, ideally a profession that does not require me to work with dead bodies," responds August, perhaps a bit too sarcastically.
"Watch your tongue!" speaks his father, "tell me, where did you get those stains from?"
August sighs, terrified to give the answer. He has never gone out with a friend before, so his day's whereabouts will come as a great shock.
"Well, I, I met an artist. I went to go watch him paint…"
His mother gasps, "is that why you were in the city? You told me it was to purchase more restorative wax!"
"Well, I purchased that too- just as you needed! But with the leftover change, I went to the museum… it was not that expensive, I promise. I skipped dinner that day to makeup for it! And at the museum, I, uh, I met a painter… who then told me to visit his studio…"
His father shakes his head. He gets up from the chair
"You know we are tight on money. Do you dare continue to waste our precious money on such tedious, useless crafts?"
"I do n-not expect to ever be rich from art-t, but is it such a cri-crime for me to do something that makes me happy?" August's voice begins to tremble.
His father stands tall. August looks up, standing on his toes to try and tower his taller father.
"You are being irrational. You do not think clearly about your future," says his father.
"And why do you think that is? You have sheltered me, kept me like a child locked in your fortress of death! Let me see the world, let me make mistakes! I never said I would abandon the family business, but I deserve to have dreams. I want to create art, to express myself and share my stories. Why does it have to feel so humiliating to tell this to you both? Can't you just support me?" August's voice cracks and strains, wet eyes block his vision.
"You'll think of yourself as immature and incompetent in six months' time."
His mother comes up to his father and pats his shoulder, as if pulling him back.
"August, please… just clean the embalming station and empty the drains. We can talk another day," she changes the topic, not able to make eye contact with her own son.
A tear falls down his face, but all he can do is nod.
"Very well," he musters up.
Leaving behind his parents, he walks back downstairs and into the funeral house, a single floor dividing domesticity and labour.
A plain, dull life of facts and reason. To too many people, life is all about the literal, the world right in front our eyes. The definitions of a dictionary are stagnant. That life is created by one God and has no reason for change. That the birds, the insects, the reptiles, us; we all have nothing in common, to refuse the idea of a common ancestor. It is taken as rule that life comes in organized stages. Like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, the human too much enter distinct stages of life that can never be reversed. The caterpillar eats and builds itself up to be the most successful butterfly, but is life only about perfecting the future? How about the present?
He grabs a bucket, throws in a bottle of soap, and pumps in hot water. He watches the soap suds fill the vessel.
Adulthood is a trap. After training your entire childhood to be the perfect adult, you must then sell your time just so you can afford to eat. The labour never ends, when is there ever a time to do what makes your feel alive?
He drags the heavy bucket to the morgue and with a wet sponge, squeezes the water onto the metal table. Stains of blood loosen, dissolving away into the circular drain. He scrubs. The fortunate aspect of this profession are the developed muscles in his back and arms.
Suddenly, he pauses. His body will not move anymore, every joint, every muscle stagnant, but mind on fire. It is as if he sees the world in the third person, looking down on himself like an all-knowing God.
"I'm pathetic," he tells himself, defeat in every letter, vowels sticking to his dirty tongue.
With a burst of energy, he uses the other side of the sponge to scrub at his pants. What am I doing? He asks himself, I like the stains! But like muscle memory, he scrubs at them like stains of paint. Except, these do not come off. The sponge drops from his hand. Wet, cold, exhausted; he sinks to his knees.
"Art…" he mutters, "I want to be an artist…"
To be an artist is a sacrifice on normality and security. To rid one's self of a certain future. Such a career is a risk, where everything is put on the line to experience a completion of the soul. Ah, but what else does August have? No friends, no space of his own, just the coins in his pocket and a new satchel of the finest art supplies.
A risk worth taking.
•••
Across the city, under the twilight moon, Theo paints. His windows look over the sparkling city for as far as he can see. Only a single candle lights his space, the canvas is barely visible. Such an exercise depends on muscle memory and his mental imagery. In his mind, he tracks the movement of his hands, remembering each stroke and the tone of paint.
"As you may expect, I have questions regarding the young gentleman who came to visit earlier."
Theo turns around. In his doorway stands the housekeeper. Her auburn hair is falling from her bun and white apron has a new stain.
"Then ask away, Ms. Ruddington. I prefer not to keep secrets from you."
She enters the studio on her own accord and pulls out one of the stools. For a few moments, she watches her young master paint in the dark, how the paint drips off the canvas and onto the floor. A gentle patter than reminds her much of the rain.
"Well, it is not every day that you allow male guests into this residence. I know your reasoning and respect your wishes, but I cannot help but wonder what has changed?"
He lets out a hum, as if in a deep state of thought.
"I met him in the museum. Big eyed like a little deer. He's soft like a rabbit, too. If I had to guess, he knows little about the formalities of art. It was so charming to watch someone become lost in my art, how his eyes traced back the strokes of my paintbrush. I saw him shiver, transport away into my fictional world… I was very charmed, yes, charmed is the right and only word to convey my emotions," he thinks out loud, a smile plastered onto his face.
"He has made quite an impact on you, I gather," she shares, a glow to her eyes.
He dips his brush into the red paint. He rarely works with this colour.
"I suppose so. It is quite rare for me to meet fans of my work, but your advice at visiting the museum has paid off, so, thank you."
"Do you expect for him to be a regular guest?"
"That is his decision. I offered him an apprenticeship."
She coughs, then clears her throat.
"Well, that was quite fast. Is he an artist?"
"He will be an artist, yes. I will make him one."
The city is bright tonight. She turns to face the city outside, the warm yellow glow feels warm against her cold, tired skin. Theo returns back to work, the swish of his brush against rough canvas is enough to lull the tired woman to sleep.
"Theo," she resumes, "we're family…"
"Yes. We are family, my cousin."
She turns to him, "then tell me and be honest: your intentions are pure, right? You will not hurt him, right, Theo?"
The painting is done. He steps back and admires it, though, he can barely see it.
"I will not hurt him. But art, well, I think he will have to break his own heart a few more times before he understands how to properly hold a paintbrush."