I Used To Be An Artist - A Short Story by Michael B. Kearney

I used to be an artist. Is that a correct statement? Can one be an artist one day and at a future date not be an artist? Can the artistic essence leave the creative person?
Earlier this year I began dabbling in impressionist painting. My bedroom became my studio. One spring afternoon the sun shone astonishingly bright through the window, splashing over three walls. It highlighted my three completed canvases sitting atop three easels. I was just putting the finishing touches on them when Mother entered the room.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the one closest to the door.”
“That’s father sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of Wheaties.”
“And that one?”
“That’s you, entering the kitchen at a harried pace.”
“O—kay? And what about that one?”
“That’s Dad’s bowl of Wheaties flying through the air, after you yanked it away from him.”
Mother yanked the painting off the easel and flung it across the room.
“No! You will not show our family secrets to the world!”
The painting smacked the wall in the northeast corner of the room. The painting of Mother entering the kitchen at a harried pace followed, landing partially on top of the first. Father was left alone, sitting at the kitchen table, eating his Wheaties. How long would that last, I wondered. I was distraught, but hid it. I am proud of my work.
Looking at the remaining picture, I loved the way I captured the exact duplication of the sunlight in our kitchen. How it danced down the spoon and off the milk in a way that encouraged the mind to simulate Father spooning his Wheaties. Yes. It was a fine painting indeed. Yet it still needed the other two to be complete. It needed their light, their movement, their seamless integration, in order to fulfill the intensity of the moment. Only with all three had I completely captured the commotion. I would paint them again if I had to. But for now, I dared not look in their direction. I quickly averted my eyes downward from the still standing painting, lest I further antagonize Mother. Finally she left the room.
I exhaled.
I was about to survey the damage, when Father arrived. A successful businessman, he stared intently at the painting of himself eating the Wheaties. I could pretty much read his countenance by now. He appreciated my skill, but was deeply disappointed in my path. He suffered no sympathy for starving artists.
“Dream like a businessman,” he said, “not like an artist.”
He left the room.
I exhaled.
As I retrieved the pile of discarded pictures and placed them back on their easels, I recalled the day the Wheaties went flying. The row was over a business decision that Mother didn’t approve of. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. Money matters.
I put my paints away and went outside for a walk. Yes, I decided, I would give up painting. With no money I was at their disposal. There was no other choice. I would have to become a businessman.
Three days later, I attended a film festival at a small theater in Philadelphia. They were showcasing short films, with an average run time of ten minutes, followed by a short discussion of each film. Short films always intrigued me since I rather liked to consider myself efficient. I made it my business to use my time at the festival to find and befriend a filmmaker. It was not difficult. The place was crawling with them. I latched onto George, a budding filmmaker, and we agreed to work on a short together. If all went well, we would attempt a feature length next.
Of course I realized Father would find little solace in my movie making venture. I would try to sway him, perhaps trying to convince him there could be television possibilities, something he was more familiar with. Mother would be a bigger obstacle.
I invited George to the house to discuss our venture. He arrived on Thursday and we went to my room for our meeting. He commended me on my three paintings. He genuinely found them inspiring. One thing led to another and before long we firmed up our plans. The shoot would be done in two scenes, five minutes each. First, a breakfast scene. Then a tossed painting scene. Working title, Triple Jeopardy.
My new partner really liked the idea for several reasons. We would only need two additional actors, since I would play the painter, and it could all be shot in one location. George already had two people in mind to play the mother and father, and he thought they would be amenable to shooting at their house.
I packed up the three pictures and my artist tools. We ran into Mother on the way out and she questioned my taking the paintings with me.
“Where are you going with those?”
“I am getting rid of them. I quit painting.”
“Good.”
“Make sure you destroy them.”
“I plan on it.”
“Don’t plan, do it!”
“Yes, Mother. I will.”
We left.
Our film went on to win several awards. I made a business decision to keep it secret from my folks.