Bad Painter on the Rocks

*Today father said, “Let’s go out and see the painter on the rock.” When we got there, the painter was there, as usual, painting away. “So let’s see it,” said father. The painter smiled. For some reason he seemed to like father. “Sure thing. Take a look.” So we craned our necks as we always did, looking over and around the body of the painter to spec his work. *“Not bad,” I said, hoping I was putting enough enthusiasm into it.”. “But not very good, either,” said father. “Not good at all, in fact. ” “True ” *said the painter, smiling ruefully. “But then, it never has been. ” “Right,” said father. “And may never be.” The painter nodded, smiling his concurrence. Dad slapped the old man on the back. “Well, see you soon. Keep at it.” “You bet,” winked the painter. *

” *Dad,” I said later as we were trotting home, “why do you encourage him if he’s no good?” “That, my son, is a long story.” “And why does he bother with it if he knows?” Dad winked. “That’s an even longer story. Come on home for a cup of cocoa and I’ll try to explain. ” Over the cocoa, which definitely wasgood, Dad said, “Look, we’ve all got to go sometime.” “You mean, die?” “Or whatever. Wherever we go, and maybe it’s nowhere, it’s not here, at least not in any material sense.” Dad took a long sip of cocoa, which was still steaming. *

” So,” he continued, “if you really want to do something down here while you’ve got the chance, you should do it. It shouldn’t be clearly stupid or hurtful, of course. But otherwise ... ”* He stirred the cocoa a bit with his finger. “You see, that guy, who by the way I should tell you is no particular friend of mine, is having a good time doing what he’s doing. He’d rather be painting his own pictures, such as they are, than going to an art museum and looking at Rembrandts. This is not to take away from Rembrandt, mind you, but that man doesn’t particularly need Rembrandt. “He’s a primitive, eh, Dad?” “Uh-huh, I see you took an art course. Well, sure, if you like, call him whatever you want. But the main thing is, he’s happy with what he’s doing, and he’s not hurting anyone. I doubt if his family is starving somewhere just because he’s not out making a buck. He doesn’t seem the type. The main point I’mtrying to make, though, is that most unhappiness in the world, once we’ve figured out how to feed ourselves, stems from people not doing that thing, whatever it is, that they would really rather be doing. *

” You mean, doing it ourselves, Dad. ” “Yes, as opposed to watching somebody else do it. Though I suppose for some people watching may be a lot of fun, too. But, yes, now you’re catching on. Go ahead, have some more cocoa. ” “No, thanks. Don’t really want any more.” “Good boy. Always stick up for yourself.” “But, dad ...

” No buts, son.” “But, dad ...* “Yes, *son?

“Doesn’t he want it to be good? The painter, I mean. Won’t it make him sad if it’s never any good?” Dad smiled. “It’s gonna get good, son. It has to get good. You see, my boy, this is the secret that keeps him going, the secret we both know, the secret that makes the two of uslike friends even though we don’t know each other .. I shrugged. “I don’t get it, Dad. ” “It’s simple, son. It’s just the way things are. And who knows, after he paints a few good paintings, he might get tired of it and go on to try something else he’s no good at. ” “But ... ”* “No buts, son… That’s what life isreally all about, and a big reason we’re in so much trouble isthat not enough people understand it. Success isonly great when you don’t get too attached to it. Today father suggested we go check on the painter. We went, and, sure enough, the work was good. But he wasn’t smiling anymore. He stood looking quite soberly at the finished canvas. There was a hint of perspiration on his forehead. “Not bad, eh?” “Not bad at all, Sonny.” Dad said solemnly. And that was the last Dad and I ever saw of him. by Lee Strauss *(Copyright @ 2015)