The Painting
James walked out of the house, squinting in the bright sunlight as it shown down on the suburbs of Los Angles. His eyes rapidly adjusted and he grinned, getting on his bike, and heading out for a ride around the neighborhood. It was one the countless new suburbs that had sprung up after the war. With the influx of GIs coming home, the new optimism after the defeat of the axis forces, and the economic boost provided by wartime manufacture, the city was in a major boom. His father had returned from being stationed in the pacific only a few short years ago. He'd be called up when James was just a baby, barely old enough to remember him leaving. He made it through the war mostly unscathed, which was more than many people could say He peddled about, looking at the small houses under construction, whistling "Howdy Doody Time" as he rode along. He waved at some of the construction workers, some which knew him by name. It wasn't odd considering that he pestered them on an almost daily basis. James rode about the neighborhood for awhile, then returned to the set of duplexes that he lived in with his parents. There were several other families living there, though none with children, and he got on well with most everyone. Well, except maybe Mr Hokusai, but that was because his parents told him to leave the man alone. He had always seemed a little grumpy to James, and yet perhaps all the more interesting because of it. The old man maintained a small garden in the fenced yard behind his house and it seemed an exotic place, especially to the mind of an impressionable ten year old Other residents included Mr Epstein, an older man who had moved in a few short years ago. He always seemed a little sad to James and his parents told him that it was because the war had cost him a great deal. James wasn't sure why Mr Epstein would have to pay for part of the war, but he was always nice to the older man, which always seemed to amuse him in some way Miss Thompson lived in the other corner with her little son William who was only 2 years old. Her husband had died during the war and James parents did their best to make sure she was taken care of. James loved her and William like they were family. But, for all that, there was still the enigmatic Mr Hokusai. He would sit in his garden, drinking tea, sometimes drawing on an easel, and James could only imagine what wonders the man must have conjured up there. "James, come inside for dinner, please. And wash your hands!" his mother called. "Yes, mom!" James replied, parked his bike, and went inside to wash up and eat. Saturday! A perfect day as far as James was concerned because it meant no school! No school meant that there was no picking and poking at which team got which player for baseball or whatever game. James found himself at the center of those scuffles all to often. His father said his arm was good enough that if he continued to practice, he could maybe play in the big leagues That was a very pleasant dream to James! He loved playing baseball, even if it was just tossing the ball around by himself, or tossing it in the air and hitting it with the old, cracked baseball bat that his dad had managed to salvage for him This Saturday was no different; James was tossing the ball in the air and catching it in one hand, carrying the bat in the other. He looked around and figured it probably wouldn't hurt to hit the ball around here a few times. He'd be careful and he'd never broken anything before, and so in his mind at least, it was more than likely a streak that would continue. He tossed the ball in the air, readied his bat, and
swung. It hit the ball with a satisfying thunk, and flew through the air in a lovely arc. Right into Mr Hokusai's back yard. That was not a good thing, James thought, with a sigh. What was he to do? He walked over carefully and looked over the small fence, seeing if Mr. Hokusai was outside. He couldn't see the elderly man and so he reasoned that he could get over the fence, grab the ball, and be out quicker than you could say Jack Robinson, and no one would be the wiser for it He put one hand on the fence and easily leapt over it, then scurried quickly to where the ball lay. He picked it up and turned to leave, when he caught a glimpse of one of the most wondrous things he had ever seen. It was a painting, or rather several paintings. They were all made of simple strokes of a brush, simple lines, and yet with those lines conveyed such a wealth of color, told such a story, that James just stood there, stunned, staring. He had never seen the likes of them, ever. He liked to draw from time to time, just doodles really, and one of his teachers was an accomplished artist and cartoonist, but those just seemed to pale in the simplicity and beauty of those paintings. He was shaken out of his reverie by a grunt, and the sound of a cane tapping on concrete. Startled, he looked up at the white haired, dark eyed face of Mr Hokusai's face who was glaring at him. "Uh, I'm sorry Mr Hokusai! My ball fell in your yard and I just needed to get it. I'll just be going now, sir, if you don't mind. He started to back towards the gate and Mr Hokusai just watched him, black eyes glittering, frowning and saying nothing James made it to the gate, opened it without turning away from the elderly Japanese man, and fled back to his house. Mr Hokusai watched him flee, and with an irritated grunt, turned and went back inside his home. James found himself thinking of those paintings countless times over the next few days. He found himself scheming to go get glimpses of them without Mr, Hokusai catching him, but feared what would happen if he did. Worse, fearing his parents reactions if they found out that he had been bothering the old man. He walked out of his home into the night air just to get some fresh air, brooding about the paintings he had seen. They stuck with him more than some catchy little song you would hear on the radio that simply wouldn't let you alone. He couldn't get them out of his minds eye He looked over at Mr Hokusai's back yard and before he knew it, found his feet had taken him over there. With a nervous swallow, he peered over the fence, trying to catch a glimpse of those paintings. The angle was all wrong; there was no way he could see inside. Frustrated, he walked over to the gate. Surely the old man would be asleep by now and he'd be just fine taking another look, right? So resolved, he crept up to the house. He made it up to the window and cautiously peered in. Mr. Hokusai was sitting at his table with a piece of parchment of some sort in front of him. Inks were spread about in little pots here and there, and he dipped an oddly shaped brush in one and started to paint in one, continuos line What started out as a simple line suddenly became a roosters tail before James eyes. A few more dabs, a splash of color, and the rooster looked, to James, as if it could leap off the page. He made an unconscious sound of awe and the old man's head snapped up, looking at the window, eyes once again glittering. James yelped and ran off, heading for his room as fast as he legs could carry him, hoping the old man was not in pursuit or going to call his parents. Several days later, doom not descending upon him from his evening misadventures, James found himself again staring at the old man's home, wondering at what wonders must lay within The idea was maddening, frustrating in a way that James had never experienced before. Why couldn't Mr Hokusai be more friendly? Why couldn't he just go chat with him? James had never understood it. The old man had never yelled at him or even said anything to him, so how did his parents know he should stay away? He turned and went inside his house. "Mom?" he called "Yes, James?" "Can I ask you a question?" "Of course! What's on your mind, son?" "Why don't you and Dad want me bothering Mr Hokusai?" She sighed. "He's an old man and doesn't need a young boy pestering him." "My grandparent are old and they don't mind," James objected She hesitated. "James, you know about the war of course. We were fighting with the Japanese." James frowned. "So Mr Hokusai hates us for it? Or maybe dad doesn't like him because he was a sailor in the war?" "No, James, nothing like that, at least not completely. We've spoken with him several times and we have remained cordial with him he's just hurting still over all that was taken from him." "I don't understand." She sighed. "During the war, the war department decided that it would be safer for everyone if Japanese citizens here were placed in internment camps for the duration of the war. I'm not sure it was a good idea at all, personally. When the war ended, a lot of the Japanese that were placed in those camps found that a large portion of their belongings, money, and other things were simply gone. "The government gave them some money to start over, but it wasn't nearly enough." James frowned as he digested this. "And he's mad at us?" "No James, not at us, just in general. He knows your father was a sailor and he seems fine with it. We just don't want you over there bothering him and maybe brining up old memories. Just let him alone, James, there are plenty of other people you can talk to." "Ok, Mom." A few weeks later, James found himself once again staring at the garden. He sighed. Why did something like that have to happen to someone who created such wonderful things, like Mr Hokusai? It didn't make any sense to James at all. The whole war didn't really make a lot of sense. To James, Germany, Hitler, Italy, Il' Douche, Nagasaki, were all just names an places on the map He walked over and peered over the fence, looking into the garden. Mr Hokusai was sitting outside today, sipping some tea and working on another painting. James watched in fascination as the old man worked, following every movement of his brush and hands with rapt attention. He moved to get a better view and his foot scraped against the boards to the fence. Mr. Hokusai looked up, frowning, and James just stood there, staring. He thought about running,
but for some reason didn't. "M-Mr Hokusai, your paintings are very beautiful," he said and a quivering voice. The old man just stared at him with his glittering, dark eyes, saying nothing. James swallowed again. "I- I saw some of them when I got my ball, and again when I snuck over to peek. I'm s-sorry I came into your yard but I wanted to see them again." The old man grunted. "Why?" he said in a guttural voice. James jumped back a little; it was the first words he had ever heard spoken by the man. "W-well they're so beautiful. I like the way they look!" The man grunted again. "Yes, but why? You have your art, your paintings. American paintings. These are just silly, simple paintings yes? Just little blobs of ink compared to your American art." "Oh no! Not at all Mr. Hokusai! Your paintings are wonderful! They convey so much with so few lines, it's just amazing! Like that one with the rocks, the ocean, and the rain. I could almost hear and feel the rain coming down just looking at it!" The man stared at him for awhile, then grunted again. He turned to go inside and waved a hand for James to follow. James stared after him for a moment, not quite beliving that he was being invited into the mans home He quickly made his way to the back door and followed Mr Hokusai in. The old mans house had an odd scent to it, something exotic that James couldn't name. It was a little cluttered, though the furniture was of simple design, but all of that is not what caught James attention. Hung about were all sorts of paintings in many styles, covering a myriad of subjects The old man turned. "Well?" "Oh, they're wonderful! I could look for hours!" "Then look," the old man grunted, stepping back, just watching as James eyes roved over the paintings He couldn't believe the skill and art that Mr Hokusai had used to create them. His eyes continued to roam over them, staring at this one and that one, drinking down every last detail. He turned and another painting caught his eye This one was of a wood scene, a large Japanese styled house sitting in a clearing, but what really caught James eye was the dragon that was sitting in the sky above it. The detail in the dragon exceeded anything James could imagine. It almost seemed to live, the scales practically rippling in the wind. The dragons eyes were the most interesting part, however. They seemed to stare back at him, seemed to be alive "That...that is..." he shook his head, unable to come up with the words. The old man grunted again. "Time to go, James." "Y-you know my name?" He just grunted and ushered him out the door. Right before the old man could shut the door, James whirled around. "Teach me to paint like that!" Mr Hokusai stopped and stared. "You want to learn?" "Oh, yes, please!" The old man shook his head. "No." James felt disappointment hit him like a blow. "But...but why?" "This painting is not for you. You have your games, your bike, your friends. This painting takes your life, all of it.
This art requires dedication and your people seem to lack it. No. No time to waste training someone who is not to take it seriously." James stared and in that very second made a choice that would change his live forever. "I would drop all of that to learn." Mr Hokusai stared at him for a long, long while. "Very well. Come to me after school tomorrow, and we will start." James learned much in the upcoming weeks. He spent every waking moment with Mr Hokusai that he wasn't required to do something else with. His parents noticed that he was no longer staying after school to play ball and that his bat and glove hadn't moved from their spot. James had missed his favorite radio programs and even the few TV shows that were on from the TV his father had gotten from work "James, are you feeling alright?" his dad asked one evening. "Yeah dad! Never felt better!" "You're not playing ball or any of your regular activities though." James hesitated. "Mr Hokusai is teaching me to paint." His dad looked shocked. "Mr Hokusai? He's teaching you?" "Yes! I had to convince him that I would be dedicated, that I'd devote my life to the art, and I will! Mom, dad, there is nothing like this in all the world! I can't wait to get over their and paint some more, to learn more, to lean how to breath life into things with simple lines and blobs of ink!" His mother and father looked at each other. "Well, if that's what you want to do, James, then do the best you can at it." James grinned at them and jumped up from the table, the legs of his chair skidding across the vinyl
floor. "I need to go. He's going to teach me how to use a sumi brush!" After he had run out the door his parents looked at each other. His mother grinned and shrugged. "Well, he's interested. Lets see how long it lasts though." His dad laughed. "Agreed. Bet you his practicing baseball within the week." His dad was totally wrong. James continued to study, to paint, and work hard at it. Within a few years, Mr Hokusai judged that his paintings were worth showing to his parents. That day was nerve wracking. He had no idea how his parents would react to what he had spent the last several years straining for, trying to achieve. They were breathless. "James...you did these?" She said gesturing to a scene with a flowering bush "Yes!" James said proudly. "Mr Hokusai said I was finally ready to show my art. He's hard on me but he's very fair. I'm lucky to have him as my teacher." They had to agree. Years went on and James learned more and more, soon approaching the skill of the old man. He really didn't miss his old life, as he thought of it, being utterly consumed by this one. He saw things differently now, with the eyes of an artist. He would carry a sketch book with him and sketch out little scenes now and again of things he saw. Mr Hokusai grumbled at this. "Using pencils and paper, James? Not traditional!" "Yes, sir, but it allows me to bring more ideas and inspiration back," he said with a grin The old man just
grunted but James saw the mirth behind his eyes that so few people saw. One day, James got up to find his parents sitting at the table, staring at an envelope, brooding. James heart lurched. "Mom, dad, what's wrong?" The looked up sadly. "Nothing James" "Then why are you looking like someone died? Mr Hokusai! He's okay?" "He's fine, James. In fact, he's going to be very proud of you." "I'm confused." They handed him the envelope. Inside were documents for a full ride art scholarship to one of the finest art institutions in all of Japan. James felt tears rolling down his cheeks. "How?" "Mr Hokusai spoke on your behalf. We've been speaking with the government about sending you overseas and there are no restrictions any longer. If you accept, you are welcome to go." "Accept....but I'd be in Japan!" "With some of the greatest teachers of all." "No one is greater than Mr Hokusai!" His mom. "Perhaps not. But I'm sure there are those who know things that he doesn't" James mulled it over. "You're right. I- I need to go talk to him." James went over to the old mans house to find him sitting in one of his chairs. The years
had taken their toll on him, that was certain. His hair had thinned, he had more wrinkles, and walked with a shuffling stoop these days. His hearing was also not quite what it was, but his eyes had stayed sharp "Mr Hokusai? I...I got the scholarship," he said hesitantly The old man simply nodded his head. "You- you've done so much for me, how can I ever repay you?" James said, voice thickening as tears rolled down his face The old man looked at him. "Release me." "I...I don't understand?" Mr. Hokusai stood and went to the painting of the dragon. "You have ever been fascinated by this painting. It is my greatest work." "Yes, sir. I swear, sometimes that dragon is watching me!" he laughed. "Sometimes I even think it moves." "She does," Mr Hokusai said in a low voice "She?" James frowned. "What do you mean? It's a painting! Even if you've called it female, it couldn't move." Mr Hokusai shook his head. "No. She moves. She lives," he said. He turned to James and for the first time James could remember, tears show in his eyes. James took a step back in shock. "Mr Hokusai!" The old man sighed. "She lives, James, and she is my mate," he said quietly. "When we learned that we were to be placed in the internment camp, we knew her health would never allow her to survive and so I painted her as she truly was, truly is. In that painting, she has her life, herself, all that she could need....except for her mate." He looked James in the eyes. "There has been on other artist that I trust to complete the process, James. Until a few years ago, I felt doomed to die here and be forever apart from her. You can change this. Release me." "Sir...I can't do that, I don't paint that well! And you'd die! What would I do without you, master?" James cried "You'll be fine, boy. You have the skills, you have new teachers. You will be greater than I and seeing this has fulfilled my life purpose far greater than I ever could have imagined. Please, James, release me." "Sir, I can't kill you!" The old man shook his head. "Not killing Setting me free." "But I can't loose you!" The old man walked over and put a warm hand on James shoulder. "You won't. You will always have the painting and I will always be watching you." James couldn't speak, just stared at the ground for a long, long while. "Ok," he finally said in a raspy whisper He took the old man into a warm embrace, trying to put every ounce of love and affection that he had built up for the old man in it. Mr Hokusai returned it, a few muffled sobs coming from him as well "How do I do this?" James asked, stepping away, rubbing his eyes. "Use those paints," Mr Hokusai said, gesturing. "And see through the eye, not with the eye. See through, as things are, not as the illusions we create." "i...I understand,' James said He took the paints, set up the easel and stared at Mr Hokusai for a long, long while, until he finally saw past the mask of the old mans glittering black eyes, to the dragon who had been underneath, unnoticed all these years He painted as he had never painted before, his mind fully locked on his work, his eyes never wavering, his hands moving in perfect synchronicity with what his eyes took in, his real eyes. At 4 am that morning, he finished. He closed his eyes and took a step back, looking at the canvas. There. There he was. Mr Hokusai was there with his mate, but his eyes seemed dead yet. James looked up to see the old man standing there, smiling. "I...I thought you'd be gone," James said in a whisper "Not without saying goodbye, James," he said in a voice stronger, more radiant, more musical and wonderful than anything James had heard before Me Hokusai's form was covered in a pale mist for a moment, and when it faded, there stood the dragon that James had painted, looking on at him, sitting on his hind legs, his body coiled up. The dragon smiled and opened his arms and James fell into them, sobbing out his grief at not only what felt like loosing his beloved master, but this fantastic creature that he had just met and was now going to loose After a long while the dragon let him go. "It is time, James." "I...I know." "I will always, always be watching over you James. Always." "I...I know sir. And I will always look to you for inspiration and...and as the one who gave me my life." "Then I am pleased," the dragon said simply. The mist rose again and when it faded, the two dragons were on the canvas together, now facing each other, both eyes live with the emotion of a love long lost regained. James put his hand over them for a moment, and then dropped it, turning away. There were simply no words. Only lines.