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Show Moon - 59 was full of hope-the trees the sky, even the people, all united by the same radiant points of light. After that, she begged for art lessons. James said she'd have to quit ballet then, for he didn't have money for both. The choice was too hard, so she contented herself with covering shirt cardboards and spread-out paper bags with dots of color, creating landscapes she could live in. Mother, here's a picture from that time. Is it true to life? Probably not. Paintings depend on lies, the colors muted or exaggerated, dragged in diagonals to create the illusion of unity; proportions foreground that which is true in feeling but not in fact; objects that seem unimportant-or too terrifying-are left out. Take the dragon on the wall of the Chinese restaurant. This dragon might take the place of something I'm afraid to remember, might have been much smaller, or not there at all. Even so, the dragon insists on pulling my eye into positive space, enormous and red, breathing fire in curls of orange and gold. It is a Saturday, so the restaurant is crowded. A "date" day. In the center of the room sits a handsome father, his hair already faintly gray at the temples, and a girl of seven or eight who must be his daughter, her legs spread awkwardly apart. Plates of half-eaten food are spread before them. Her hand lifts a teacup translucent and white as an eggshell. The father is drinking wine. If this picture weren't static, but could move-not in ephemeral grace like dance, but in the sequence we call story-what happened next? The girl couldn't sit still. She twisted in her chair, looked around nervously. She chattered incessantly, praising the food, the wonder of a place called China. People turned to them and smiled. I think she talked so energetically because she was nervous. |
