Although I make a habit of studying the space and people around me, my eyes can’t help but stay locked on the painting in front of the dinner table. The painting is a melancholy blue all over save for one small red box three inches from the bottom right corner. With just two colors, and a terribly simplistic design, I wonder why would the management of this restaurant have chosen this piece to sell?
“Maybe I should start painting again.” I say to my good friend Mindi who sits beside me. “Even I can do that.” I tilt my head in the direction of the art work.
She makes a comment in agreement.
Over a cheap bottle of the house wine (which might as well be wine flavored water) the subject of my paintings is raised. Mindi offers words of encouragement about restarting my hobby of art. As usual, I take this opportunity to beat down not just my artistic pursuits, but all my creative endeavors.
“There was a time,” I begin to reminisce, “when friends would call me a painter, or at least an amateur one. The same with writing; I was labelled a writer by some. Now what am I? I’ve lost my titles and I don’t know what to call myself anymore.”
Enter Mindi with her words of encouragement.
“That’s not true.” She counters. “You have a lot of great pieces.”
“Sitting in storage collecting dust.” I say. “Most of them have to be retouched or done over. So that leaves me with what? Two?”
“Well you have friends who know you as a writer.” She offers. “You have readers on your blog-”
“You mean the one I haven’t touched in four months? And how long before that?”
I can read disapproval on her face of my self-defeatism.
“Well then what are you really looking for?” She asks. “It shouldn't be about how many projects you complete. It should be about the journey.”
I stubbornly remained unconvinced and let the silence that falls between us inevitably change the subject. As I stare back to the plain blue painting, I think, maybe the piece is just a damn good conversation starter.
