The Journey Read Free Page A

After Argus had sufficient time for a close scrutiny, the man asked rather impatiently, ‘Well, what do you think?’
    Argus felt a little out of his depth; rather than comment on the artistry of the painting he thought it safer to take a different tack. ‘It must be hard,’ he said shyly, ‘to paint something when it keeps changing all the time.’ The man looked at him in apparent surprise, then resumed his work. ‘I mean,’ said Argus, ‘which moment are you painting? This one? Or the last one? Or one from this morning?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said the man, ‘It’s always difficult to take something that’s moving and full of life and turn it into something that is still. Not even death can do that.’
    â€˜What’s harder?’ asked Argus. ‘Taking something moving and freezing it, or taking something three-dimensional and making it flat?’
    The man put down his brush and turned to face his young interrogator. ‘You’re a remarkable boy,’ he said. ‘Do you like art?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Argus replied. ‘I’ve never seen much. But I like real things better, I think. I mean, I’d rather see a tree than a painting of one. I think it must be frustrating for you, because even if you do a thousand paintings of a tree, it’s never going to be as good as the real one.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said the man. ‘It may sound trite, but Nature is the great artist, and we can only imitate her. But supposing a painting gives you a new way of looking at something, so that you get an insight into it that you didn’t have before . . . I mean, a portrait might show you an aspect of someone that you hadn’t noticed . . . a sadness or a sense of joy or a thoughtfulness in the eyes . . . wouldn’t it make the painting worthwhile if it could do that?’
    Argus studied the man’s landscape again, only this time more closely. He saw the weary way in which the pickers’ backs were shown bending over the crops. He saw the careless lines in which the frames had been arranged. And he saw the shadows thrown by the poplars in the afternoon sunlight. ‘Why don’t I notice these things when I look at the field itself?’ he wondered.
    Without speaking to the man again Argus walked a little way along the fenceline and stood watching the scene with eyes that were more discerning. He realised that he did not need paintings, just keener eyes. ‘He’s not only describing what we both see,’ he thought. ‘He’s commenting on it as well. I suppose everyone does that when they paint or tell a story, or dance something, or sing about it . . .’ He recalled his attempts the night before to remember the faces of his family and decided that despite his moment’s fear that he would not be able to visualise them, he preferred to carry his own living pictures in his mind rather than rely on ‘dead’ pictures on canvas. ‘My mind’s full of millions of pictures,’ he thought. ‘I just need to know how to look each one up.’ He tried to imagine a square cut out of the view in front of him and replaced with a painting of the missing section, and decided that no painting could ever be adequate.
    Lost in thought Argus wandered back to the painter, who had stopped work and was taking food from his bag. The boy stood looking at the painting again, admiring the skill with which it was executed. ‘Share my lunch with me?’ the man asked, offering Argus a piece of pie, which he accepted gratefully. ‘You know,’ his host continued as they both settled down on the ground with their backs against trees, ‘everyone needs some kind of outlet for the artist that’s in them. Doesn’t matter whether it’s painting or writing or carving or music. Everyone’s got to have that outlet, and if they don’t, they get a kind of