Metafiction: Week of Silence

Frankly, since I was young, I was not very fond of ‘artworks’, especially those that are so famous that people try to award them with those ‘unworthy meanings’. Those filthy critics saying “what a fabulous painting that accurately captures the chaotic yet beautiful nature of human mind”, for example, to a mere painting with random rectangles just….freak me off! Do they really say those things because they actually think so?

Unfortunately, this point of view that I have had since I was young was actually related closely to the fight between me and my father, who works as a critic in a magazine. My father, partly because it is his occupation, loves giving those strange meanings about various artworks, while I abhor that. Eventually, last week, we got into a big fight when he talked about this artist named Thomas Mortenson when we went to a restaurant to eat dinner.

“Dad, I said I hate that artist!”

“Why? Just look at his paintings, and feel the…”

“Nonsense! Be honest to yourself! Do you really think that…”

“Art is the only way that human being can truly express itself! That is why I chose to be a critic, and that is why I could not quit this job even when I could not earn much money, and…”

“Yes, and THAT IS EXACTLY WHY YOU BROKE UP WITH MY MOM!”

And then he slapped my face. Then he put 20 dollars on the table so that I could pay for the dinner, and he rushed out of the restaurant.

Yes, my parents divorced six years ago. My father, a not-famous critic, couldn’t earn enough money, and used to fight with his wife -my mom- day after day. One day, mom eventually got tired of everything, and declared that she wanted to divorce with him.

“I cannot bear this anymore, Steve.”

“Jenny… But look at James, you son…”

“So you want me to look at James growing up in this wretched house? A house supported by this critic-something who likes art even more than his family?”

My father could not reply to that question, and that was THE END. For two years following the divorce, I lived with my mom, but she unfortunately passed away due to a car accident. So, since then, I have lived with my dad, who, although it caused him to break away with a woman he loved most, is still so passionate about his job as a critic.

Whatever, after my father slapped my face, we didn’t talk at all for almost a week. A week of total calmness and slight antipathy. And because only my dad and I live in our house, that calmness was something impossibly difficult to bear. But my dad just didn’t seem to care at all. As he did before, he used most of his days researching about various artists, and writing articles about this diary of a famous artist named Thomas Mortenson.

A full week of uneasy calmness eventually drove me mad, and I decided that I should take a look inside that diary, questioning to myself the reasons my father was 
interested in the diary.

9/15
I had a sleep attack again. Mom would simply hug me tight whenever I run over to her, sobbing, because of fatigue. Sometimes I feel my eyeballs bulging out when I'm deprived of sleep.
Ms.Alisa called me to the disciplinary office. I felt very sorry for her because I don't pay attention in class. But it's partly her fault too because her phoenics class is awfully boring. I said sorry, Ms Alisa because I wanted to go have lunch. I like pickles. We had pickles at the cafeteria today. Ms Alisa cuddled me and tole me, you're a special boy, Tommy.

I was on my way home from school, went suddenly my brain turned off again. When I opened my eyes again my eyes looked into the familiar 'Marvel' poster and I found myself in my bed. Soon, I found my mom, watching me worryingly from the end of my bed.

"What happened mom?" I asked. " You slept during your walk to school and you hit your head on the floor." She said. "That's unfortunate." I said. "It will be okay, Tom. Mom should head for work, see you later". I was left alone. There were some papers on the table, there were some notes but I don't care. I started to draw. It was 3 pm then. It's 11 pm now and it's not finished yet. I'll finish it after the diary.

Just a normal diary…. I couldn’t see anything special from it at all. Actually, it was not a perfectly normal diary, as it is a diary of a boy suffering from sleep attack. But I couldn’t see anything special about that. Especially nothing related to the fact that this Thomas Mortenson is a renowned artist. So I decided to read the diary of the following day.

9/16

My head was hurt. It was dumb until yesterday. I almost finished my picture in the morning at 7 am. It's just 8 pm. Mom said I was not responding to her. She said that I was as if I were stuck in my own world, not just my own room. I don't know what is happening, but now I see my picture is painted in black except for my signature. The left corner is the only evidence that yellow color was once used in that canvas. I'm confused. Such thing never happened to me. I cannot think of any explanation nor do I want to. I'm tired. I may just sleep early today.

From the word ‘canvas’, I could see that the diary had some links to the fact that Thomas Mortenson was related to art. But that didn’t really explain why my father…

“So, you’ve got yourself interested in his diary.”

“Huh?”

I turned around and found my dad standing behind me, smiling. He seemed to be excited to know that his son(me), who never had much interest in art, would spend time reading something that he would write about in his article.

“So, what do you think?”

He just seemed to be so bright, and I could not find a clue from his face that we have fought so badly just a week ago. All the antipathies that continued for a week seemed to have been sucked away by his pure passion in art.

I felt dazzled by the fact that such antipathy could fade away so easily, but I decided to answer anyway.

“Actually, I don’t know.”

“I expected that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“But, why?”

“Because you would not even know that Mortenson started working on his most celebrated work on September 17^th.”

“His most celebrated work?”

“Take a look at the diary of the next day.”

9/17

I woke up at 8 am. I didn't go to school today. I just felt tired. But mostly, I wanted to draw things; I didn't mind what to draw.

And that was the end of the diary of that day.

“That’s all?”

“Yes! And that is the real beauty of this diary!”

“Why..?”

“Because it enables us to imagine!”

“Imagine?”

“Uh…huh?”

“And you know…… Jenny and I actually first met in the Louvre museum, looking at the painting.”

“Really? Are you kidding me?”

“Yes, it’s definitely true. I got her into having dinner with me by talking about everything that I knew about Mortenson… She really liked to talk about artworks with me then.”

I don’t know why, but I didn’t know how to reply to his words. Moments of silence followed.

“You know, James. I really love Jenny. Now that she’s gone, forever gone, I work as a critic to think of all the beautiful moments I spent with her. All those times we spent in the museums, all those times we talked about artists, all those times we made love to each other, and when we had you…”

Moments of silence followed again.

“You know, Jenny didn’t like to take pictures. So, I don’t have any pictures of her, and the best way to remember her is to think of all those paintings we enjoyed…You know, HAHA!”

I still couldn’t reply. I felt my eyes getting wet.

“I am sorry, James. I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh, it’s okay dad. I understand.”

Then I went inside my room, and shut the door. And I cried, cried, and cried. I could finally forgive my dad.