The Painter
Written for Emilic.
He comes in every day at four
Sets up an easel in the back room
Takes one of the antique tables
From the shop window. He
Opens paints and spreads them out on a sheet of white paper
Clean white paper
He squeezes out acrylics
Into little squishy-looking mounds of colour
He runs a hand down the canvas
Trailing his fingers over its white
He smiles, and runs his hand through hair
Sandy brown
Gets caught in the ribbon tying it back
Frowns,
Jerks loose
And reties it
Fingers clever at what they do
He straightens his cravat
Smoothes down his waistcoat
And takes a brush
Takes a brush
Holding it carefully
It looks soft and brown-gold and
He dips it first in the cup of water
On the table
Beside the paints
Then gently,
Elegantly,
He strokes the silky tip
Along the dark red paint, drawing it across
And then he lifts it...
We all know he's mad, this man
He insists we call him
"Monsieur"
He thinks it's two-hundred years ago
And he dresses old-fashioned
And ties back his hair
And wears boots
And wears neckscarves
But the gentleman who keeps the shop tells us he's fine
Says we aren't to bother him
Papa says that the gentleman who keeps the shop
Is just as mad
But nice
And it's a lovely shop
An antique shop
And the gentleman who keeps the shop
Lets us run about in it, and lets us have anything we like
On Christmas
And Monsieur, the painter
He's awfully quiet
And he sets up his easel in back every day
And he paints
He paints
He's painted me before, he has
Me, with paper flowers in my hair
And barefoot, too, even though I wear my good shoes
When I come here
He gave me the painting too
Today, he's not doing people, like usual
Today, he's doing a flag
In a funny pattern
Because it's supposed to be red and white stripes
With a blue patch and stars
He's doing red and blue and white
But he's doing it all in stripes
Can't understand at all why
He doesn't make much sense, though
He's mad
There's people, after all
There's a tall boy, with yellow hair
And serious, dark eyes
Like Michael up the street
I come in real quiet
Because we're not to disturb him
And ask him what is it
He smiles.
"Mon cherie, it's a painting."
"But who's it of?"
"It's of a boy from a novel.
M'sieur Hugo's written a new novel. This
Is one of the characters."
"What's his name?"
"What do you think?"
"Michael."
"No, cherie, it's said 'Michel'."
"Oh..."
I knew he was mad.
I go back to the door to watch, and
He paints
He's quick, sometimes
And sometimes he does it very slow
Today, he's going slow
It's boring...
I go out the door, into the shop
And the gentleman who keeps the shop
Nods to me and asks what do I think of Monsieur's new painting?
I tell him that it doesn't make any sense
He laughs. He
Tells me that it's not supposed to
I better go home, I say
He says goodbye, and I go
Monsieur is mad, but
He has nice hands. Real nice hands
And he paints okay
I kinda like it. And I like the one
He did of me
The gentleman who keeps the shop
Told me once
That Monsieur's terribly happy living way back
Two-hundred years ago
That his world is magical because it's not real to us
But it is to him
The gentleman who keeps the shop
Says he is envious sometimes
And Monsieur is terribly lucky
To be that terribly happy
He says
That it is so beautiful
To have something like that
Papa
Says that Monsieur's real name is Jack
He says that anyone would
Pretend to be mad
To protect themselves from that.
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