Childish

a conversation, this evening

I went to a bar this evening to sit and jot down some ideas for my next post.

It was underground.

It used to be a morgue.

There was a local artist showcasing some work.

Mixed media illuminated on a brick wall.

I took a moment to take in the art and sat down.

Empty seats on either side of me. Good.

A few minutes later a woman sat next to me. Wrinkled skin and caring eyes. The last bits of black hair, defiant beneath bundles of gray and forced through a ponytail. Scrubs. Out for a drink after work.

“Do you mind if I ask?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Did they hurt?”

She gestured to the tattoos on my fingers. Classic.

“Bee stings.”

“I want to get a tattoo, but I don’t like needles.”

“What do you like?”

“I like art.”

“Do you make art yourself?”

“No, I’m not very good.”

“What does that mean?”

“I dabble, but I don’t like what I make. The other day I was in a dark place. I took out a piece of paper and started scribbling with a black marker. Just scribbling around. Making lines here. Swirls there. Zig-zags and stuff. My husband came in and said I was being childish.”

“Because you were drawing?”

“I suppose so,” she sipped her Malbec.

“Well, we have a lot to learn from children. I would consider your husband’s comment to be a compliment.”

“Childish isn’t a compliment.”

“How about childlike?”

“That’s better.”

“Funny how childlike is a compliment, but childish is an insult.”

“That is interesting,” she pondered. “Yeah.”

I closed my notepad. “How many children do you know who create art?”

“Hmm. I’d say all of them.”

“How many adults?”

She searched her brain. Another sip. “I don’t know, maybe a few?”

“Why do you think that is? Why do they stop?”

“Probably the same reason I did. My husband told me my drawing wasn’t very good. I crumpled it up and threw it out.”

“Everyone is an artist until they’re told they’re not.”

“I mean, he was probably right. About my drawing. He studied art in college.”

“Ah, I see. So he believes what he paid someone to tell him to believe about art. Sort of the same way you believe what he told you about yours, except you got that for free.”

She smirked. She sipped. “You have some interesting perspectives.”

“I would have really liked to see that drawing you made.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Her colleague came and sat next to her. They started talking.

Back to my thoughts. Notepad open.

Not so fast.

I felt her turn back toward me.

“Do you mind if I ask?” Again. “What do you do?”

“I help people become so free within themselves that they can create whatever they want for their lives.”

The way I describe my work is a little different every time. I gave up a canned response years ago. It evolves too quickly. Plus, things lose a bit of life with each repetition.

“I also make art,” I added.

“Can I see something you’ve made?”

“Sure.” I took out my phone and showed her a few things.

“See…I could never do that.”

“Of course you couldn’t.”

She stared at me quizzically, like she knew I couldn’t have meant it in a menacing way.

“You could never do that. Because I did that. It’s unique to me. Whatever you create would be unique to you, and I could never do that. Like the drawing you made in that dark place. I could never do that. Although, I’m just speculating. I wouldn’t know. Because you threw it out.”

She laughed. It was a liberating laugh. It was a laugh that left space where there was tension.

“Do you mind if I ask?” I returned the favor. “What sort of art would you make if you forgot you were bad at art?”

“I don’t know…”

“Cool. Let’s find out.” I conjured an imaginary square on the surface in front of us with my fingers.

She looked on, amused.

“Go ahead, draw something.” I handed her an imaginary marker. “But remember, you’re not bad at art.”

She hesitated.

She took it.

She proceeded to talk me through a drawing. “Well, there’d be a tree over here,” she motioned her invisible marker. She looked into space for a moment, waiting for the rest to arrive. “The leaves would be butterflies. And over here would be a dead tree with dead flies all around the base of it.”

“What else?”

“In the middle there’s a rainbow, but not a normal rainbow. There’s like three rainbows coming out of the ground, going different ways,” she gestured with her hands.

“It’s really coming together.”

She wasn’t done. “Down here, there’s like a river and the river flows upward into a waterfall in the sky and it’s just like all these squiggles, like the waterfall is flowing out into the sky and evaporating into the air.” Her hand moved rapidly across the bar top.

“Anything else?”

“Yes!” she jolted up in her seat, “A penguin of sorts… right here.”

She had become radiant.

She was forty-four years younger.

Joyful. Carefree.

“I’m done,” she put the imaginary marker down. “What do you think?”

“Me?” I paused, “I think that I could never do that.”

“Ah, touché.”

We were both laughing now.

The laughter led to a warm silence, as silent as ambient chatter and cocktail jazz could be.

It was time for me to go.

I received what I was here to experience.

So did she.

“Mind if I have that?” I gestured toward the surface before us.

“No,” she snapped, folding up the imaginary art and putting it in her purse. “It’s mine.”

…

“Well, that was childish.”