The Painting that Grew

‘I am so tired of the art-jargon of people who are so fond of talking of certain pictures growing on us’,exclaimed Kubisha sheepishly ,with the disposition of a man who was so miffed with his own stunted growth that he begrudged some boring lifeless art-papers a right he had been so deprived of.In his teens,Kubisha had been a man of pleasant disposition,but with his growing age,and static growth,the worlds unreasonable injustice and harsh unkindness had given him reason enough,or so he felt,to be pugnacious.

Dobbis had been listening for long to Kubisha’s endless tirade against his despicable neighbour,who,in the age of his life that should have been dedicated to a peaceful passing away,had not only developed a distasteful love of art,but even had the insolence to lecture Kubisha on it.Presently,he felt within himself an urge to speak and enlighten Kubisha with his own worldly knowledge,and he disposed of this growing urge with the words,’that would seem preposterous,if not a somewhat frightening as well’,and paused a while,probably to marvel at the wit of his just made statement,and possibly,in wait for appreciation from his listener.Dobbis had recently acquired amongst his fellow creatures,a fame for being witty,due to his recent exploits in bringing to the notice of the local municipality,the lack of ‘ proper ambiance in public toilets for the peaceful exudation of excreta’,as he had cleverly put it,and partly,for the joke his sister had recently made at the House Of Commons,of which she,being the commonest of individuals,was a member,a joke which had made it to the front pages of many news dailies.However,on scrutinizing and realizing that his just made statement had not had its desired effect on the listener,he proceeded to add

‘but some pieces of art really do grow with time,if not exactly in artistic sense,but certainly in monetary terms’.

‘Do they?Then,i think,in their present state of unaberrated growth,its worldly unwise of people to still invest in the stock market.’

Dobbis ignored this present snub from his listener and said,’I know of an event in which the an art-piece’s growing value was a considerable cause of anguish to one of my distant cousins’,and without waiting for another snobbish reply from his hostile host,proceeded into the details of this just mentioned event.

‘Old Patrick,for so he had being nicknamed,probably owing to the fact the peoples earliest memories of him were of being old,had earned a reputation for being a hard money lender.He had earned an entire life’s living through lending money hard,and had earned it well.One might even say that he was rich,judging from the monstrously huge mansion he had built himself.So,when Old Patrick died,it was not much of a surprise that nobody really mourned his sensible passing away.They might have even attended the funeral with the air of mirth that one usually associates with public revelry or fall of a dictatorship,but the norms required that the attenders wear on their face a look of perennial grim,and all of them being devoutly religious,conformed to the rules of a normal funeral march.Even his son,Junior Patrick,for he had so come to be called, having lived long in the shadow of his maliciously infamous senior,might have felt within himself an impulse to rejoice the occasion,being finally relieved of the ‘rule of the cane’ as the neighbours put it,but for the huge fortune his father had apparently left him.Money,afterall,has the ability of overcoming barriers even love cannot.

But after a few days he realised that his financial condition was not as rosy as he had earlier imagined it to be,for his father had lent a man,some Mr Mccaby,a sum of money sufficiently large to result in a crease on juniors forehead and be the cause of sufficient anguish to him.This sum of money,which the now dead Old Patrick had lent to this man was to be repaid on the day Junior’s father had so intelligently dedicated to the passing away of the worldly embodiment of his soul.So now Junior,after much procrastination,for he was in mortal fear of his debtor turning upon him,and after having whipped his father a sufficient number of times in his mind to have attained a satisfactory revenge to the ‘rule of the cane’,summoned up enough courage,partly on reminding himself of his malicious ancestral blood,to face him,and with the disposition of a man having come unto his own right,set out quickly for the house of Mr Mccaby.However,even with all haste that he could summon into his journey,he was a little late,for his debtor had followed Old Patricks example,probably with the noble intention of paying him in person.

Now,Junior,given the present depreciation of his recently inherited fortune,was forced to rent out a room in his mansion to occasional travellers.But his newly conceived business did not receive much response,partly due to the infamy he had inherited,until one day,a middle-aged man of about forty,sporting a classic Ford car,probably as a demonstration of his wealth,landed at his doorsteps.Since the minimum rent period was a month,and Junior,having partly inherited his business acumen from his father played hardball,the stranger offered to pay for the whole thirty days.Whether this was out of desperation,generosity or a blatant display of his wealth,Junior could not tell,but was only to happy to pocket the money with the disposition of a man on whom the service to his guest weighed more heavily than some inconsequential crisp bank notes.Junior’s sagging financial fortunes received a further lift when the traveller offered to buy one of the paintings that adorned,or according to Junior,tainted,one of the walls of the guest room,for a worth of about ten thousand pounds.

And so,after two days of enriching junior,the traveller,carrying his suitcase in one hand,and his new prized possession in the other,boarded the Ford car and set off,leaving an amused Junior to chuckle at the foolishness and naivety of having bought such a worthless piece of art.

The turn of events came a week later.Revelry had still been junior’s prime mood,when he was awakened to the realms of reality by a sudden knock on his door.On opening the door to receive his new guest,he was treated to the sight of a bag which belonged to the Ministry of Arts,as a tag on it demonstrated,and behind it,the bags rightful owner,who,clearly not satisfied with this earlier mentioned demonstration,bore on each of his two pockets,metal tags proudly displaying the hierarchy of his post.Junior might have allowed his mind the discretion of imagining the man as a walking sign-board,but the mans wealthy bearings unwarranted the liberty of such a thought,for a man wealthy enough to be respectable is allowed the liberty of walking through his sins in life with the aura of self-righteousness.Presently this Ministry of Arts went on to introduce itself as,not at all the Ministry of Arts,but rather a very unassuming Mr Hammond.On confirming that he was indeed addressing the rightful heir of the late Old Patrick,he went on to brief Junior as to the real cause of his untimely visit.Apparently,the old man,in his age,had acquired the costly habit of patronising arts,and had bought a painting of one Pablo Picasso for a worth of some hundred thousand pounds,half of which remained to be paid.’