his father

portrait of my father

It was a whirlwind, a flurry. He came in with purpose and passion, it had been too long, days away from the still new varnish and fresh paint smell of the polished studio. Lights, music, action. Even the dogs scurried in and out with tail wagging vigour. it was unseasonably warm outside but a cold amber ale made everything cooler.

I hadnt expected this though, a new canvas, pristine soul seekng white, not the large work he had started when last he made his presence felt. I was intregued. It started quickly, him dancing and darting in front of a figure, seated. I moved closer, he didnt notice ofcourse, eyes glazed in that twilight state. The face began to form quickly, chiseled from the virgin white. I began to recognise…….. yes, his father, I think. I had seen him last, busy, smoke hanging from bottom lip, sawdust on his brow, helping lay the studio floor, thick Welsh accent still even after long years in the Austalian bush.

He sat and took a breath, it was progressing quickly, the Muse was certainly guiding his hand this time. Ive seen it on occassion, its as if he is just the messanger obediently scribbling visions from the other.

the next coulpe of days went on like this, furious conducting with the brush followed by a beer and contemplation, dogs panting, sniffing, in and out, grown daughters popping theIr heads in only to complain about the music, both its volume and how crappy his taste was. Then as quickly as it started it finished. So there the newest creation stands, proudly on his easle.

the lights dim and the music fades. Squeak, click and hes gone again, off I suppose to do battle in the trenches of the industrial chaos and clamour.

He’ll be back

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