CHAPTER THREE
The flag on my door, I love it. Even though we have different flags in the UK, I particularly like those of the United Kingdom and the Union. The history of the making of those flags is intriguing that I often wished I was there when it all happened. I once created a mental vision of St. George of England and St Andrews of Scotland gently placing their respective red and white crosses together to form once the most powerful flag on earth: Great Britain's. It's a move to reconcile the confusion that arose between Scottish and English Navy. Almost two centuries later, the white and red crosses were placed on the Satire of St Patrick of Ireland, giving birth to the flag of the United Kingdom otherwise called the Union Flag.
The flag had been a citadel for both peace and terror to nations and colonies, being mounted in every continent as a sign that Great Britain had a piece of each. They say the sun never sets in the British Empire in reference to the greatness of Britain cutting across Europe, Asia, the Americas, Africa and Australia. Very historic, without the history, the flag would just be a piece of cloth with red, blue and white lines crossed in one way or the other.
I heard burning flags is invitation to war between the conflicting countries. And when citizens burn their own county's flag, they are seeking world attention to witness the brutal opposition to the government's policies or the governance as a whole.
Coming back to my little world, I consider burning my sketch an invitation to war, being a gesture that showed strong opposition to what I love—painting.
"Picasso burnt some of his paintings to keep warm."
"What?" I exclaimed; Mr Glasgow shrugged without saying anything than leaning back in his seat. "Just to keep warm, he burnt his paintings."
Mr Frederick Glasgow was my art teacher at school. A chubby man, bald headed and short, whose agility has a sharp divergence with his speech. He's soft spoken and a good listener. Like the Chameleon eating up letters in Mavis Beacon's Typing Test Graphics, you press the button; he swallows it fast, but unlike the chameleon, spits it out gently. Some say he used to be a rugby player, but his affinity to football could prove that wrong.
"You see;" he adjusted his reading glasses “When he came to France in the 1900 to make a living, he lived poor, in a less cosy apartment with a roommate. Some say feeding was difficult for them and as a necessity; he sometimes had to sacrifice a painting to fuel fire for warmth. He hardly made sales at that time."
‘Bloody hell’ was all I could say "I would never burn my painting; never!"
"See, a certain necessity could present the happening of such situation."
"I'm not even thinking that far."
He smiled, sighed and leaned forward. "So this girl, did you look for her?"
"No I didn't. No need; I mean I hate her, but even if I see her someday, there's nothing much to do. The sketch is long being burnt so confrontation is useless." I said dismissively.
"That's good. She burnt only the sketch, not your talent. But should in case you happened to bump into her someday, won't you be curious to ask?"
"Well, I was really upset when that happened. But later on I realized that when it comes to girls and women generally, one is bound to remain angry forever if he'll always get upset by what they do to him. They are a kind of complex; you will never understand if you are not the patient type." I said casually, my mother's words. I saw his left eyebrow moved up a bit; a sign I think, of fascination at my statement.
"That's well said, Brad. I wish my son could hear that." He laughed. "He always has trouble with girls. But I'll remember to tell him." I smiled. "I have something for you." He moved his chair back, drew out one of the drawers and brought out an old book. "A little dusty though, but not a problem, it's older than you after all." He placed it before me on the desk.
The book cover has no picture or any graphic on it; rusty brown in colour, about 5 by 8 inches in size. The name reads; "Mood and Colour: a Background for Expressionism in Art." The author was Fredrick Glasgow.
"This is your own book." I picking it up.
"Yes; I wrote it seventeen years ago. It's just what I feel about creating moods on a picture. I only hope you'd believe me after reading it. A lot of people didn't."
"Why didn't they?"
"Read the book, Brad. Maybe you'll find out why."
“Thank you.”
I was on my feet three minutes later heading to the door when he called back. I turned and my curious face asked him what it was.
“Next time you see the girl; have the courage to ask whether or not she burnt the sketch." I asked him why and he said "You said you would never burn your painting. So why should someone burn your sketch."
There was a straightness on his face that I couldn't at once pick what he meant or wanted me to think in regards. The only thing I felt was; he was kind of pained about it, like me; and that I shouldn't let it go just like that.
"Yes sir, I will do that." He nodded once, like a US Marine, still maintaining the face.
Cathay’s High came to view the moment I stepped into the open. It was a beautiful sight, though normal to me. It was time for home and students walked haphazardly all over the place. I stood and watched for a moment, lingering with a little hope inside me to seeing the strange blonde girl in the crowd. I saw one, then another, then another and many more. None of them had her looks; or so I thought. I sighed, smiled at my own folly of deceiving myself before walking to the bus stop.
My Favourite Muse Page 3
