I love waking up on a Sunday morning consciously not knowing what to do, and not feeling the need to do anything at all, which is the best way to get things done beautifully, at your own pace. That’s the secret, Mark said, to do things strictly right. One has to perform beyond the cuffs of time and the dictates of a boss, even if you actually have one, and even if it’s just you. One needs to be fiercely loyal to one’s art and nothing else.
I unpacked my colored pencils, sketchpad, and whatnot, started to draw, while Mark simply took out his book and read by the side of a salt-water pool in this nearby resort. We were a few chairs apart, bordered by coconut trees, and didn’t seem like we came in together.
But it was blithe everywhere under the kind cerulean sky that held us all captivated by its natural beauty, as if held by its encompassing arms, and it was like every one within the resort knew each other somehow, or were part of a beautiful conspiracy to make each day as positive as it is laid back and stress-free.
I could have drawn up anything, absolutely anything my heart desired to satiate my artistic goals without the fear of reproof, or the sight of a single raised brow.
I hardly noticed that Mark had gone out from his chair and squatted at the end of a wooden platform that jutted out into the body of water. He was now sipping beer and staring out into the bordered pools, a dimming sky, and the clubhouse, where Kalesas skirted around with flowers trotted by.
At the end of the day I barely got any work done. If only for a couple of pages with vague sketches, and it was impossible to continue in the evening. It was hardly worth anything, except my heart was content, and if there was any value in the day at all it was knowingly having done nothing of economic value, and still be happy about it.
The moon was up now, hovering a few inches above a Christmas lit mango tree.
Life, like art, is too beautiful it makes you aspire like the lonely pale moon a world away reaching out.