I believe in the art of story telling; it is the purest form of honesty. Because I consider omission a lie, telling your story is important to me. Now not the sort of story telling in which characters are made up, and fairies and wishes rule, but those that pass personal experiences from one individual to another, the type that take emotion and experience not imagination.
Although considered quirky and eccentric by others I am always telling my story. There is never any unveiling that occurs with my new painting of a story and I find reprints or repeats almost as hilarious. Living in the moment gives me the finest painting tools to create a masterpiece to share with others. No matter how many times I tell others my colorful story of the time I discovered “the university for me”, every time it makes me laugh, and every time excitement fills my stomach as I wait out the summer to attend. Setting up the circumstances of me going on a tour mostly to prove I had made the correct choice in choosing a different college three states away, then explaining an empty dorm lounge with table set up all facing one head table, these are the silly details. But then the staging is to come, there are two gentlemen seated at the head table concentrating in full. Then comes the unveiling, what were these students doing that proved my thoughts on this being a college for those geeks and nerds with crazy math skills? There they sat with around twenty Rubik’s Cubes and a stopwatch.
“Have you broken any records yet?” I ask it partial mockery.
And they cheerfully replied, “Not yet, maybe tomorrow.”
Odd as it may seem, these insignificant details are the only way for me to explain to my friends why the quirkiness of a school won me over. And, yes, why I, that quirky dork will fit in there. So thank you to the Rubik’s men, I look forward to hearing your stories, and I will be expecting great things because some of the most artful stories come from the odd balls.
If it wasn’t for the stories I tell or I receive from others, explaining my life and those close to me would become nearly impossible. How else would I learn about then explain my father’s life? Born in Indonesia, raised to ten in Holland, then a 60’s pacifist who was drafted; it all doesn’t mean much without the stories, and the details are what make it priceless. Those precious details are the attention to color and shading that make a story come to life. They are what, if lacking, commits the art to the background, becoming a canvas for the true storytellers’ masterpieces to be created. Please don’t skip the details, for omitting them from the art will leave a story untold.