The Painter

An old woman stood on the busy sidewalk amidst the bustling crowd. She stood under the faded awning of an establishment with boarded-up windows and a darkened sign on the closed door. The weather was dreary and gray. The rain came down from the cloud-covered sky and darkened the sidewalks and the city streets.

Passersby carried umbrellas to protect them from the rain and the elements, and they walked quickly with downcast and distant expressions. They moved around the old woman without paying her any mind. It was as though she were simply something to be avoided, like a lamppost or a mailbox.

The old woman knew their wearied and haggard expressions were not because of the weather. It had nothing to do with the rain. Even if it were bright and sunny, she knew their expressions would undoubtedly stay the same. They had forgotten something. Something important. They needed help remembering it again.

She set down the large canvas bags she held. After taking out several small metal cans rimmed with dried paint, the old woman rolled up her sleeves. With a careful eye, she stared at the barren wall of brick and stone next to the run-down storefront.

The old woman stood in front of the wall and held a paintbrush in her left hand. A wooden palette with bright and vivid colors was in her other hand. She studied the emptiness of the wall for a moment and then glanced back at the gray world behind it. She saw the frantic rush, the hurried steps, the ambitious, anxious drive of everyone around her. Then, she nodded to herself. A faint but determined smile passed across her face.

This was exactly where she needed to be.

She looked back to the empty wall and began to paint. The old woman painted slowly at first. Not for hesitation, but to set the painting’s foundation. Her brushstrokes swept bright swaths across the brick and stone, like sunlight scattered amongst the clouds.

Still, the passersby continued to ignore her and move on. She did not care. She was focused on her work. She didn’t know how long she painted. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The sun was still hidden behind the clouds, and all she cared about was finishing her work. Nothing else mattered.

As she continued to paint, the old woman added more colors, and her brushstrokes became more hurried and frantic. She seemed to match the speed and pace of the world around her with her painting. Droplets of color splattered and dripped like tears down the once-barren wall. She abandoned the brush altogether in some places and simply splashed paint straight from the cans. It sent brilliant cascades of color and light trailing across her impromptu canvas.

The old woman grinned with satisfaction and laughed in delight. Paint covered her clothes and speckled her face and hands, but she didn’t care. Several people glanced over at her warily—such sights and sounds were strange in the gray city. They soon looked away again, uncomfortable.

When she was done, the old woman lowered her paintbrush and palette and gazed upon her handiwork. The wall, once empty and barren, was now an explosion of vibrant colors and shapes. It stood in utter contrast to the gray world around it. It was breathtaking. It was beauty, it was joy, it was life.

The old woman smiled to herself and nodded. She wiped her hands on her already paint-stained jeans and gathered up her supplies. She placed them back in the large canvas bags. Then, without so much as a second glance at her masterpiece, the old woman turned and walked away. She soon vanished into the sea of people. Her work was done. It was time to move on.

The people continued to walk past the artwork at a hurried, frantic pace. Most of them paid the new mural no mind. They simply didn’t notice it. But every once in a while, someone happened to glance over and stop. They hesitated. It usually wasn’t for very long—no more than a second or two. But it was enough.

And just like that, even just a little bit, they began to remember. They remembered what life was like when the gray clouds weren’t there. When the stress and concerns and worries could all be forgotten, even for a moment. Some of the weariness left their faces. Faint smiles broke through. One or two of the passersby even laughed aloud as the old woman had, surprising themselves. Joy returned.

As for the old woman, it would make her happy to know that her artwork had been noticed; that it made a difference in the lives of total strangers. That was why she made it in the first place. But, even if she never fully knew, that didn’t matter. She’d simply keep wandering from street to street throughout the city. She’d find those empty, barren walls. And she’d do her humble part to bring a little more color, a little more life into the gray world that seemed to have forgotten all about it.

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