The Painting Read Online Free PDF

midnight blue, angry ocean blue, bruise blue, calm lake blue, periwinkle, the purple blue of an oyster shell, the wing of a blue jay, blue ginger. Her mind skips across the blues, like a flat stone on water. A brush made from the tail of her father’s horse dips into a pool of bruise blue and prances across the white sheet of paper.
    She paints his kimono and whittles some yellow, brown, and red from her blocks of dried ink. With drops of water, she makes the color of dried wheat.
    After a while—how long, she does not know—she looks up. The first light of the morning is peering through pale yellow sky. She inadvertently glances over to his side of the studio, to his potter’s wheel and clay. A big lump of brown clay sits next to the wheel, wrapped in a wet burlap cloth. What an ugly color and a messy craft, she thinks. She feels a prick of guilt, just a hint, something that can be quickly trotted back to the recesses of her mind. He is probably in the kitchen, waiting. Let him wait. There, on her paper, her lover is gazing at her, brilliantly alive.
    Hello, she whispers. Hello, my sweet love.
    H E REMOVES THE WHITE Wrappings from his feet and rubs them with a towel. The maid has worked on his feet all morning. He glances toward the studio. A brown thrush sits on the window ledge and picks at the sunflower seeds he left out. She spends so much time in there, and yet he never hears her talk about her paintings. He has only seen a handful—rice paddies, a setting sun, the turning of a maple tree during autumn, a single twig of cherry blossom, a spray of rock azalea. They are pretty, he supposes, in their own way, but how could any of that be so compelling as to demand hours and hours?
    W HAT MAKES HER GLANCE up, a stir of wind, a branch scraping against the studio window, a hum in her blood stream?—she’s not sure, but he is coming. There is his strange walk, so spasmodic and jouncy, as if his legs only reluctantly give in to the task. His arms lurch forward then back, his rhythm off. She should have tended to his feet. She is a bad wife, she knows.
    The black ink soaks into the white paper. She blows on it to dry it faster.
    His hand is on the doorknob. It turns. She slips her painting underneath her desk. The paint is mostly dry. She covers it with another sheet.
    He opens the door.
    Good morning, he says.
    Good morning.
    He asks if she’s already eaten breakfast.
    No. That’s where I’m off to, she says, standing. Are you here to work?
    I thought I might try.
    Her cheeks flush, and her eyes dart to the door. You didn’t feed the fish. Should I take care of it? I can do that. If you want.
    He looks at her puzzled. You never feed the fish. I thought you didn’t like to. The smell of the fish food. He dismisses her offer with a toss of his hand.
    There is a pause. They look at each other; he feels bold today, though he doesn’t know why. I was hoping to see your painting. You’ve been in here so long. It must be remarkable, your painting.
    She steps away, the back of her heel scrapes the door. Oh, no. It’s not done yet. Maybe later. Maybe when I’ve finished it. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
    That would be nice, he says, and then just as quickly as it came, his courage leaks from him. He doesn’t want to stir things up, not when he’s settling down to work.
    H IS HANDS ARE DEEP in blue clay. The other day, he had the gardener travel to the Tamagawa River and bring back buckets of this smooth mixture, so fine on the fingertips. Crushed sand, he thinks. He smells the rich earth. The wheel will sing to him, a sound that’s been with him for almost thirty years. He thinks of it now as a voice. Sometimes he imagines it’s the voice of the old woman healer; sometimes it’s his mother’s. He loves the making of the bowl. It is only later when he looks at it that he finds so many mistakes.
    He pumps the pedal, which, in the beginning, only slightly hurts his foot. The wheel begins to turn. There is the hum now. He