The artist and the kid

The artist, an old lady, was enjoying her coffee and browsing some photographs on her laptop. She specialised in painting landscapes. Beautiful paintings. Lots of them too. Landscapes with beautiful houses, rich gardens, complex paths, exotic plants and secluded patios. All with great detail but still lacking something.

Beautiful as they were, other than the plant life and an odd butterfly fluffing around, nothing much happened over there. No eyes to see the colours of the flowers, the butterflies and the trees. No eyes to appreciate the tranquillity and peace of the gardens. No laughter to compliment the rustling of the leaves. No cries seeking the attention of a loving grandmother.

Empty gardens. Houses full of ghosts. Ghosts feeding on every brush on the canvas. Years of painting, years of feeding, years of torture. The brighter the colour the more they ate into the old lady.

A kid was sitting on another table. With his dad. Making noise. Lots of it. Playing and having fun. Annoying the artist and her ghosts.

[photograph: painting on tiles by unknown, unknown gallery, Porto, Portugal March 2003]