'Dragon’s eyes' by Patricia Akasaka

 

“But you never finish your paintings,” he complained.

“It’s better that way,” I explained. He is a new art teacher at my school. For the last 6 months, he had been trying to help me with my paintings. Or that’s what he thought he was doing. Teachers are funny creatures. I love them but they are nuisances, most of the time at least.

“You see, my dad used to paint dragons and he was the kind that would never put the pupils in his dragons’ eyes.’

My explanation should have been enough, but he wasn’t convinced. He came from Tokyo. Maybe in Tokyo, those things are no longer believed. Or he is very bad at Chinese classics.

“You are such a good painter—you know that yourself, right?”

I nodded. Of course, I am. Much better than him.

“For example, this picture of the sea—why do you do this. You capture the feel of the sea so well. Why do you leave this here?”

“Do you want me to add anything to this?”

“Sure, that would be good—”

I sighed, picked up a brush, looked around and started to work on the Setouchi sea painting.

 

Seagulls. Smell of fish. Salt. Rust. Beach full of broken glass bottles.

August sunshine piercing our eyes.

“Whoa—whoa?”

He stood on the scorching sand staring at me.

“Now—the water.”

I wielded the brush. Salty water welled up from the canvas and filled the art room. It wetted our feet. Soaked up in our clothes. Soon, we were up to neck in the water.

“Stop—stop!”

He screamed and I drew a dark black line onto the picture.

 

“I don’t think you believed in the power of art.”

I said calmly.

“No—I don’t think I did,” he replied.