“Hey Alex, that’s not the way to think. In God’s eyes we’re all
equal.” I said, trying to appeal in vain to his African sense of religiosity.
“It’s true you are
poor, but you’re young, healthy and strong, and you’re intelligent. You must
believe in yourself and stop believing in all the things that beat you down,
and if you really want, I mean really want, things will change.”
As I spoke, Alex’s attention seemed riveted, as if to a truth heard
for very the first time; and it seemed his demeanor had changed, from one of
despondency to hope, as though the seeds of my words, nourished by the longings of his heart were germinating before my eyes. And I knew that for both of us
nothing would ever be the same again.
“Do you want to be an artist, I mean learn to draw? I can teach
you.”
At this suggestion his eyes widened with a look of excitement, bordering on disbelief.
“ Can I do that? Will you teach me, really?” He said, searching my
face for signs of insincerity.
“If you really want to learn, if you’re prepared to work hard
and persevere, because
perseverance is the main thing; to be able to keep going; to keep your goal in sight no matter
what other people say or think; you just keep going on an adventure, leaving behind what you know and discovering something new.”
The first lesson began. I explained that drawing and painting were
one thing, but more important was how you did that thing. This was the art of
the art. We talked for two or three hours. I explained line, tone, light and
colour, contrast and visual storytelling. I explained the world, not as he knew
it but how he would learn to know it. It was enough for one day, and we arranged to meet the following morning; and after that we
met everyday. While I drew, building up a visual diary of the village, he was
at my side, watching intently, hanging on every mark I made. Curiously, he knew
even before I did when a drawing was finished. “You’ve got it” he would shout. At first I would carry on but, then I soon learned to trust his
judgment.
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