90 years old, still not done.
I decided to start a new category. It is going to be called stories. The stories are real life events or based on real life events.
The story below is a real life event.
Travel, travel a lot. Do it all before you hit 30. Thats what I did, he said. I might be 90 years old but I'm sure as hell not done yet. I went to copenhagen a couple of weeks ago. Amazing city. Bikes! Bikes everywhere! You been there? He asked me. Still looking at the street. We were sitting with our backs towards central park. Yea, I replied. A couple of times actually. Well then you know! He said. Bikes. Lot of bikes. Weird language. But nice people. Good people. I nodded and looked down at my sketch pad. I had been tryng to finnish this drawing ever since I sat down but the conversation with the man kept me from looking down. I did'nt want to be rude even though he wasn't looking directly at me.
I gripped my pen and made a new attempt to keep drawing. You born here? He asked. I looked up again. No, I was born in Colombia, but I live in Sweden. He turned his head and looked at me, squinting his eyes. A couple of seconds passed. It felt like a minute. I wanted to look away but I could not. 4 seconds later he looked away instead of me and said well thats what I thought, your hair is too big for a scandinavian girl.
I laughed. Yea, I guess you are right.
My friend said something about my hair recently. I remember now as im typing. "You have so much hair it looks like your hair grew you" As if i was born with big hair and then underneath it all a girl started to grow.
Colombia he said. Latina huh? I nodded without thinkning about that he wasn't even looking at me. Yes, I said instead maybe a lil bit too loud... Never been there he said brushing of, to my eye, invisible crumbs from his khaki pants. He was wearing a shirt sleave shirt. Pink. With two chest pockets. In his right hand he was holding the newest Samsung smart phone. This man was up to date.
So you are an artist then? I didn't realize 5 minutes of silence went by. I forgot to draw too, damn it. Uhm.. Artist... I don't know if I could call myself that? I glanced down at my half ass drawing. I wasn't tyring to draw anything crazy. Only what I was seeing. In this case the street, a jeep parked on the other side below the street signs inbetween a bin and a tree. The apartment building behind the car. Closed blinds and above it all the traffic lights just hanging in the air. Well, he said. If you enjoy art, if you produce art in any type of way or form, if you have ideas and creative urges to just put thoughts or colors or shapes down on a paper you... He stopped himself.
You what? I thought to myslef. Why did he stop? I tried to look at him without making it too obvious. I mean he is old what if he just forgot what he was talking about and zoned out?
Another eternity went by. I realized how hot it was, what time it was, how dry my mouth was, my feet were sweaty.
Suddenly the man placed his index finger on my drawing. Artist, he said. Then you are an artist. I looked down at his finger. A weird thought came to mind, his finger doesnt look old at all. Im looking at a 90 year old finger. A finger that has been in the game for 90 years and it doesn't look old, not one bit. How? How Did you keep your finger looking so young sir? I asked, not.
Yea well I guess I can call myslef an artist, this time I looked at him and smiled. Of course he said crossing his right leg over his left leg as he placed his hands on his right knee still looking straight forward. For whatever reason I felt like doing the same thing. But I didn't. I just held onto my pen and sketch pad as I felt sweat drops dripping down from my temples on the bench. Artist, I am an artist.
The story below is a real life event.
Travel, travel a lot. Do it all before you hit 30. Thats what I did, he said. I might be 90 years old but I'm sure as hell not done yet. I went to copenhagen a couple of weeks ago. Amazing city. Bikes! Bikes everywhere! You been there? He asked me. Still looking at the street. We were sitting with our backs towards central park. Yea, I replied. A couple of times actually. Well then you know! He said. Bikes. Lot of bikes. Weird language. But nice people. Good people. I nodded and looked down at my sketch pad. I had been tryng to finnish this drawing ever since I sat down but the conversation with the man kept me from looking down. I did'nt want to be rude even though he wasn't looking directly at me.
I gripped my pen and made a new attempt to keep drawing. You born here? He asked. I looked up again. No, I was born in Colombia, but I live in Sweden. He turned his head and looked at me, squinting his eyes. A couple of seconds passed. It felt like a minute. I wanted to look away but I could not. 4 seconds later he looked away instead of me and said well thats what I thought, your hair is too big for a scandinavian girl.
I laughed. Yea, I guess you are right.
My friend said something about my hair recently. I remember now as im typing. "You have so much hair it looks like your hair grew you" As if i was born with big hair and then underneath it all a girl started to grow.
Colombia he said. Latina huh? I nodded without thinkning about that he wasn't even looking at me. Yes, I said instead maybe a lil bit too loud... Never been there he said brushing of, to my eye, invisible crumbs from his khaki pants. He was wearing a shirt sleave shirt. Pink. With two chest pockets. In his right hand he was holding the newest Samsung smart phone. This man was up to date.
So you are an artist then? I didn't realize 5 minutes of silence went by. I forgot to draw too, damn it. Uhm.. Artist... I don't know if I could call myself that? I glanced down at my half ass drawing. I wasn't tyring to draw anything crazy. Only what I was seeing. In this case the street, a jeep parked on the other side below the street signs inbetween a bin and a tree. The apartment building behind the car. Closed blinds and above it all the traffic lights just hanging in the air. Well, he said. If you enjoy art, if you produce art in any type of way or form, if you have ideas and creative urges to just put thoughts or colors or shapes down on a paper you... He stopped himself.
You what? I thought to myslef. Why did he stop? I tried to look at him without making it too obvious. I mean he is old what if he just forgot what he was talking about and zoned out?
Another eternity went by. I realized how hot it was, what time it was, how dry my mouth was, my feet were sweaty.
Suddenly the man placed his index finger on my drawing. Artist, he said. Then you are an artist. I looked down at his finger. A weird thought came to mind, his finger doesnt look old at all. Im looking at a 90 year old finger. A finger that has been in the game for 90 years and it doesn't look old, not one bit. How? How Did you keep your finger looking so young sir? I asked, not.
Yea well I guess I can call myslef an artist, this time I looked at him and smiled. Of course he said crossing his right leg over his left leg as he placed his hands on his right knee still looking straight forward. For whatever reason I felt like doing the same thing. But I didn't. I just held onto my pen and sketch pad as I felt sweat drops dripping down from my temples on the bench. Artist, I am an artist.