by Geoff Gouveia
This is part two of four. They stand alone, but the greater narrative runs through all. Read the first.
illustration by Geoff Gouveia
Every year in March the colors present two opposing views of life. To those who notice the soft pastel pinks, the month is about life. Seedlings pop through black branches, the winter scorched trees begin to tint towards green as spring appears on the horizon. To those who notice the black destruction of winter, it reminds them only of what was and how the black replaced it. The new life breaking through is a cause for mourning as the world spins again and again despite the loss of life. What once was is no more and those who try holding onto the past mark themselves doomed as gravity pulls them the ever changing seasons. March, below the surface in each person, reveals what they experienced the year before.
The March I am in smells fresh. A deep-breath-in-the-chill-and-the-freshness-fills-the-lungs-and-straightens-the-posture fresh. The buds I pass on the way to my meeting are the lightest hues of rose pink, fuchsia and peach with greens underneath them to illuminate the undertones in nature’s harmonies. A beautiful Southern California sun warms a yellow glaze over the greens, popping the colors like an Impressionist’s painting. March mornings are too delicate for the naked eye to process and my view bounces from art to art as I walk nature's gallery.
When I walk, the steps are light and they dance around black branches that stick into the path. One of my paintings snags a branch but the blackness hides its false interior strength and it snaps with a hard tug. The back of the canvas rips as rough as scraped flesh and my smile fades as the door swings open with a gentle nudge.
Small student paintings pasted over unfinished sketches and postcards from past shows adorn the cluttered office. The desk backs against the wall, paintings and paintings lining the wall next to it, boxing in the small office even further. Thompkins huddles over the desk, his nose casting shadow over his notebook. Small scribbles of dates on the calendar filling up as his mind unwraps its contents into the lined boxes.
I tap his shoulder.
“Professor Thompkins?”
He shakes for a second, answering with a startled, “Yes? Oh hello, George. Come in.”
I set the piece on the easel in his office. The natural lighting is weak and the studio lights buzz in anticipation of what the piece I’ve brought holds.
“How’s your week been?” I attempt break the stillness.
“My week? Oh. Well not too great. Patricia isn’t doing too…” his voice begins and then recedes into his chest as his eyes close, “…well. God gives, God takes, right?”
I search his eyes for context. Unfound, I shrug the statement off. His shoulders are drooping and I can't see what's pushing them down.
"Should I come back another time?”
Thompkins hands fold on his lap with his eyes staring through the small natural light source in his office. Outside the window, the branches are black. There are no buds on them and the beginning of something new hasn't evidenced itself yet. His eyes are gray, the blue they had beginning to fade. He looks like someone who's been carrying a weight for a long time and the exhaustion one feels after letting the weight go, setting it down and reflecting on how hard the journey has been.
His head turns on a slow swoop. “Today is fine. What did you bring me?”
My lips purse towards the pastel flavored canvas.
“I’m proud of the piece, I took the advice given last time and worked well on my preparation. I felt I held the piece in tact while painting it, focusing not on feelings but on technical craft. I like this one. I thought-”
“Well. First off its too much local color. What is this pink here? Straight from the tube, no? It doesn’t fit. You see the vibration here, against the green? That won’t do. It confuses the viewer.”
“I like it though. I like the green.”
“What does it matter whether you like something if it is wrong? What are your intentions?”
“To be harmonious.”
“See there, you’re wrong again. Stop forcing the work, make the work unfold naturally.”
I haven't seen this side of Thompkins before. His eyes move from the piece and then out the window. At the point he would normally close his eyes and voice soft concerns, today it switched with wide eyed gray orbs that sat above tired lips spewing curt sentences.
“I’m sorry, George. I’m sorry about my mood. Perhaps it would be best to follow up next time, maybe next two weeks or so?”
“Sure, not a problem. Everything alright?”
“I can’t say yes. She’s not going to pull through it this time.”
A third of his age, I can’t comprehend my own future marriage falling apart with me remaining long after her. Sorry sounds trite and pointless but I offer it regardless.
“Thanks, but this is another test. Just another trial. God gives, God takes.”
His voice loses its volume and then his eyes find the branches outside the window.
“Nothing seems to be growing this year. The branches are dead still, they don’t have the life I remember them having. Everything is like that. I’m tired. I’m sorry, George. I’ll talk to you real soon.”
He stands up and hands me the painting. I offer him a smile as a condolence but I wish I had something he needed. The door shuts and his chair creaks on the other side before a slam breaks the silence, the way a fist would on a desk followed by papers hitting the ground in a jumbled mess. My hand balls up to knock but a sigh precedes the statement “What next?” from inside the office.
My voice rebounds against the door, “See you soon Thompkins.”
Outside the office, the branches do look dead. More black than they are near my apartment. Perhaps the sun doesn’t shine on them like they do near my home. Time choked out the buds and I wonder if the trees will ever grow back, if branches have it in them for green to ever replace black.
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