Red on canvas

I do not particularly enjoy art, nor do I know much about it. Until recently I never stepped foot in a museum or had a discussion about art. I even find drawing or painting a chore, I do not enjoy creating art. Despite this, by all intents and purposes I am an artist. A successful artist. My last painting sold for three million pound and my net worth is apparently close to one-hundred million.

They ask so many questions; who did you study under, where were you educated, who are your biggest influences, where do you get your ideas, what next for the brightest new star on the scene? I keep my answers brief: schoolteachers, Steemfield Comp, Big Willy Thompson, they come to me when I'm stressed or sad, I'd like to relax a little and maybe read a little. Sometimes they laugh but mostly they look disappointed with my answers. I'm disappointed with them. I want to ask where they were when I was struggling, ask them how all this money can be thrown at me and on top of that everything I could need is given to me for free when a few years ago I was so poor I was eating Good Flake cereal without milk, how could my mum and dad die penniless despite working hard their entire lives while I don't work at all and get paid millions for my paintings. They wouldn't have the answers if I did ask, maybe some would laugh again.

~

My dad was a genius; he could take anything apart, fix it up, and put it back together again. TV's, VCR's, DVD players, stereo's, washing machines, dryers, dishwashers, microwaves, computers. In his younger years he was in a band, he sang and played guitar, but he left to work a steady job when my mum got pregnant. That band went on to be Blue Water and had a few hits in the early 90's. He never thought about what if.

He used to work for an up and coming company called Darby's, fixing machines and even got up to management but it lasted less than ten years. People stopped getting their machines fixed as it became cheaper to just buy a newer, better model. Darby's ceased the whole repair side of their business overnight and my dad was made redundant. He kept in touch with some of the other managers until Darby's was bought out by a huge company and all his former colleagues were made wealthy men. He never thought about what if.

He spent the rest of his life working in a chemical mill. I knew from other people how backbreaking the work was, but my dad never complained. One day somebody from the previous shift hadn't cleaned out one of the vats properly and as a result some caustic soda dripped on to his head and into his eye. He was blinded and had some burns on his face that never fully recovered. He got paid three thousand pounds, that's all his sight and good looks were worth. Still no complaints. When he died three years later that money was still in his bank account, as was the day and a half pay he had earned the week earlier – he had a heart attack on Tuesday an hour before finishing time, hence only half a day's pay.

The last time I spoke to him was four days before his death, on the Saturday. We shared a bottle his favourite honey rum and among other things I told him I was looking into a computer sciences course, he told me he looked into a similar course before he opted for electronics. Domestic appliances, he was advised, will always need fixing but computers are a passing fad. I saw a 'what if' in his grin, but he never said it. He asked if I was still painting and told me he looks forward to his next one; years ago when I was very low on money I gave him one of my paintings for his birthday and it became an ongoing thing every birthday, Christmas and father's day. When he died, I went into his bedroom and the walls were plastered with the paintings I gave him. The only decorations, other than my paintings, was a family photo of the four of us and photos of his four grandkids. No what ifs old man.

~

My mum and dad hadn't shared a bedroom for maybe five years. The reasons they gave was that after forty years my mother couldn't take the snoring anymore and that lately the chemical smell on him, even after a thorough shower, would leave her eyes weeping and nose running for most of the next day. My dad didn't seem to mind much. When my dad died my mum was sad but not how you would expect, it wasn't like she was sad at losing her husband it was more just sad that he died like she felt sorry for him.