Memorable?

With the sketchbook, we sat on the bench on the square.

And? What do you see?

A lady in red... The words were spoken before I had a deeper thought.

Contours, contours, how many times do I have to say it, the teacher shouted as he frantically drew in the air with his pencil. Contours, no details, you can colour in in your spare time. Look, look and see! Take in the contours as your hand draws them on paper.

Blood, I thought, she carries the colours of life, love and death. How isolated she stands at the monument of the servants who fought and died for...

I look around me. It is Memorial Day and life goes on. People chat about everything except those who died for their freedom. A man has fallen asleep on a bench. Mothers with children, old and young, no longer dwell on a war that seems long ago. Even the man in the uniform doesn't care much about Memorial Day.

She stands alone on the square. Confused, waiting, uncertain because she is the only one for whom this day does count. Resignedly she watches how children climb over the monument. She would like to scream but keeps her mouth shut and turns around. Five minutes of silence for the heroes, men like her father. With a blush of shame, she counts to 300 sees the two men with a sketchbook, turns abruptly and walks away.

And? Do you have the contours, the master asks.

I nod. With quick lines, I sketch the outlines and next the most important lines. I looked and saw what others didn't want to see. Ignorance, a monument that lost its meaning, and a lady in red in the centre between life and death.

Painting: Monument in New York City Square (1949) by John French Sloan
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25.10.24


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