Abstract Art

When my brother, Elliot, came home on Thursday night, he didn't even look at me. He went up to his room and slammed the door behind him.

I asked my mother what that was about, but she shook her head. "He's been like this ever since he got off the bus."

"Should I talk to him?" I asked.

But Mom shook her head again. "Give him some time."

And so we did. All through the afternoon, when I was doing my homework, I heard no sounds from his bedroom except for the occasional clunk which could only be him, doing something. I wanted to do something, to say something, but I could find no words to say. I wanted so badly to say something, but I didn't know how. I love my brother, I really do, but when he goes into one of his moods, he doesn't come out for a while. I knew he'd come out to eat dinner. He always did, no matter what his mood was.

But even through dinner, he didn't come down. Something really was wrong. "Mom," I asked at the table, "should I ask him to come down? He usually listens to me."

But Mom shook her head once again. "Maia," she sighed. "He wouldn't talk to me at all. Even if he did listen to you, I think he needs some time alone."

I tried to listen to her. But my desiring to make things right took over. So when Mom put me to bed, I snuck into his room.

His door wasn't locked, so I just went in. He was sitting at his desk, head in hands. Crumpled-up pieces of paper lay scattered across the floor, like bombs in a minefield. He must have been working on some piece of artwork, but had failed. But... not coming down for dinner? On chicken parmesan night? All for a piece of artwork? Not likely. Then it hits me. He was bullied.

I should mention this: Elliot... how do I put it?... has a deformity. His face... isn't like the other kids. There's no way to describe how he looks, so if you want to know, read the book Wonder. He looks something like that.

Though he's only seven years old, five years younger than me, he knows what people say about him. They call him "abstract freak" and "monster", and they are afraid to even look at him. I hate that people see him that way. Elliot's been like this since he was... born. He had to go through so much surgery, and I remember those late nights, how horrible I felt. How horrible he must have felt.

He finds a refuge in art. He draws whatever he feels like. This is how he got out of physical therapy and went to regular school.

He opened his iPad and put in the secret code that he trusts only me with. I watched from the door as he puts on Bob Ross episodes on Netflix. He still hadn't noticed me yet. He watched the first episode that I showed him when he was five. But after thirty seconds he grunted. He turned the iPad off and threw it on the floor.

"Elliot," I said, "Stop this." Why in the world would he throw a present from Dad on the floor? He knew that gave that to him as a symbol of their passion of watching Bob Ross. Before he joined the US Navy.

He looked up, his eyes wide. "Maia?"

"Stop this... whatever this is. I know something's up. It's chicken parmesan day, and you didn't come down to get some. Tell me now!"

I waited for him to say something. But he just wilted. "I didn't... I wasn't..." Tears spilled out of his eyes. I can tell this is the first time he's cried all day.

My eyes softened, "Oh, Elliot, I didn't mean it like that. Just... tell me what's going on."

I walked over to him and massaged his shoulders, guilty I had snapped at him. Finally, he sighed and told me the story.

"I had art today, and we were supposed to draw..." He paused to swallow back tears. "We were supposed to draw a self-portrait. But I just can't seem to do it... I..." He let out a sob. "Some kid called me 'ugly', and then I... I... p-p-punched him." He looked up at me, eyes wide, but I didn't say anything. So he continued: "I was sent to the office, where I begged and begged for them not to say anything to Mom. You know, she's been through so much, so I thought that... that if she didn't know that it would help..."

"Oh, Elliot," I whispered. "It's okay, it's okay."

"No, it's not," he sniffled. "I used to be so good at art, but now I can't even draw myself!" He began to sob again, and this time, I didn't know what to say. Elliot was really good at art. It was the only class he had ever gotten 100% in. But... what would happen if Elliot couldn't draw this self-portrait? Would his love for art dissipate? And with that, his memories of Dad?

I had to say something. But what? What would get him to change his mind?

"Elliot... you love art, and you're awesome at it. So.. you can do it, right?"

He sniffed. "No." A tear fell down his cheek. "I don't think I want to draw anymore." He slumped down in his seat. His face was a mix of so many different emotions, so many that I don't think I could have named them all.

And then it came to me.

I knew what I had to say.

"Elliot," I started. "Can you look in the mirror?"

He looked up at me with wide, confused eyes for a second, but then he looked into the mirror.

"What do you see?" I asked.

He growled. "I see a hideous freak!" He got up and threw himself onto his bed, punching his pillow from under the covers.

Not what I was going for. But a start.

"Elliot," I started again, "can you look back at the mirror?"

He shuddered for a second, but then lifted off the covers and looked into the mirror. I asked him what he saw again, and this time, he stopped. His pupils expanded and contracted, trying to make sense of my question. And then they settled.

"I see... a boy. An... upset boy."

"Okay," I said. "What does this boy look like?"

Elliot peers closer at the mirror. "The boy is... sorta abstract-looking."

I sat next to him on the bed, and I held his hands in between mine. "You can draw exactly what you imagine, can't you? It's what you do every day."

Elliot's mouth began to turn up at its edges. Only slightly, but enough. "Yeah," he said, "I guess I do." His grin became wider and wider. "I can draw whatever I see!"

"Even if what you see is abstract."

He jumped up to his feet. "I'll get more paper!"

He dashed out of the room, but not before stopping to hug me tightly. "Thanks, Maia," he murmured happily. His voice was a bit muffled in my shirt, but all the feeling was there. I sighed. "You're welcome, Elliot."

As he ran out to ask Mom for paper, I felt like I had a slightly new perception of life.

Maybe we all see life as abstract.

But that's what makes it beautiful.