Chapter Eleven
Joaquin
It began with that little drawing in the corner of the first theater. None of the auditoriums were large, and once I got going, I got the large side walls done quickly without allowing my artistic desires to come through again.
And then I reached the lobby. I’d already used each of the various colors, but the mural I began to sketch was going to require more.
I knew Eryx had ordered the paint from out of town, but the local hardware had enough of what I needed to supplement.
With all the paint smells, I propped the front doors open and settled in to sketch out what I had in mind.
The wall behind the snack counter would offer a perfect canvas, and as I drew, I began to remember how much work even the most modest mural took.
My previous works back on the lands had all been group projects.
I laid them out and guided my friends and family in filling in the colors; it was an amazing process and so special to do together.
Everyone who participated or was related to someone who had been involved—which added up to the whole streak—would walk past the works with such pride.
It didn’t matter that I’d done everything to create what amounted to a paint by numbers.
They’d all thrown in and helped to make something beautiful.
After I left, I hadn’t considered doing anything like that.
Murals were very important cultural artworks, in my humble opinion.
They were not only worked on by the group, but the subject mattered.
In this case, I had chosen movie history, which was perfect for the venue, but doing it myself? Not so perfect.
And I was taking a big chance that Eryx would like what I’d done. Choosing to ask forgiveness rather than permission was another feature of street art, but this was his theater.
“Hey, I’m wrapping up here.” Jamie, the plumber, had come up behind me at some point. “What are you doing?”
“I’m painting a mural.”
“Don’t you need a bunch of people to do that? I saw one on TV and they had dozens of people helping.”
“That was probably a much larger project, but usually there are helpers, yes.” I considered the design and added some more lines. Better.
“What does a guy have to do to become a helper on this? I’d like to do some. I’m no artist, but if you can show me, I’ll try.”
I could have hugged him. “Grab a brush and I’ll show you what to do.”
The electrician came in and picked up a brush as well, and I began to notice people outside the open doors slowing as they walked by.
“I think I’ll go and see if anyone else would like to help.”
“Do we have more red?” Jamie asked.
I showed him where it was then went out onto the sidewalk and stood there. Not sure what to say.
Fortunately, our intrepid plumber did know. He came out behind me with a sign painted on a piece of cardboard. In red. It said, Free Art Workshop, Inquire Inside. “People always like to think they’re getting something free.”
He went back in, and no sooner had he passed through the door than the first applicant approached me.
It was a female, some sort of cat shifter, and she was quivering with excitement. “A free workshop?”
“Yes, and the completed project will stay up behind the candy counter for everyone to see,” Jamie called from inside.
“That sounds amazing. How do I apply?”
“Go right on in, and when we have enough people, I will start the workshop.”
Within a half hour, we had as many as could fit in the space at one time and had to set up sessions throughout the rest of the day and the next day.
It was incredible. A few people recognized me as the popcorn guy, and others had seen me here and there around town.
As we all worked together, I felt the first real sense of community I’d experienced since leaving my streak.
Sure, I’d met a lot of folks, but I’d never participated in anything with them that made it feel like a team.
A family. And I’d missed that feeling so much more than I’d even realized.
My eyes welled up more than once at the laughter and talking and creativity.
I’d been so worried about Eryx returning to find it half done and hating it, but as it came together, so complicated but the people were doing a great job, I couldn’t imagine how he wouldn’t love it.
How anyone wouldn’t.
My grandfather had been an artist and taught me a lot of what I knew, but once he passed on, I had developed my own style. One I hoped he’d have been proud of.
And it was done in time.