Daiki stared intently at Ichiyo’s back. He was wearing a formal suit. For a man already in his 50s, his frame was solid and possessed character. This was the back of a world-renowned artist. How dignified his father looked compared to Daiki.
His back was like a massive wall that cut the world in half by itself.
I cannot overcome this wall. It is not allowed. I can only obey.
While Ichiyo looked at the paintings, he said nothing. Occasionally, he would concentrate on a painting and gaze at it with a sharpened glare.
“How is it, sir? Are you satisfied?”
He wanted to say that he had painted it all according to his father’s instructions. For example, for the red in the painting that Ichiyo was studying right now, Daiki had been compelled to use a red-colored clay that could not be found in the city.
Or the angel painting, for that matter. He had wanted to portray it with a sad expression, but he had been forced to paint it with a joyful smile. Daiki had originally wanted to express a form of pain that was little more than hatred, yet now, it had become quite gentle, a warm picture. The irony was, in the end, he had received high praise for it.
The paintings, the colors, the forms. All of them were just as Ichiyo wanted. Daiki had obediently moved along the rails Ichiyo had laid down for him.
I’ve been running inside that tunnel for years now.
Ichiyo finally reached the final painting. It wasn’t in Daiki’s nature to wear a watch, so he didn’t know how much time had elapsed, but it seemed like a very long period.
Although it was the last painting, it was a kind of practical joke. It was a crayon drawing, done before Daiki could even remember, when he had yet to develop either sketching or artistic skills.
It was a laughably exaggerated picture of the sky. The sky was a mishmash of blue and red and orange, and the sun was purple.
Daiki hadn’t been aware this painting still existed, much less that it was being displayed. At first, he had protested, but the publishing company had told him, “This was the starting point for the artist, Ikuma Daiki.” So they strong-armed him into displaying it.
Why they would want this ridiculously inept, meaningless thing displayed was beyond him. It was no longer possible to determine what kind of paper it was drawn on. It was a 1.4 meter square, a needlessly large drawing.
Yet here it was now, boldly standing as the last in line of several of Daiki’s finest works. This drawing stuck out like a sore thumb from the rest of the artwork, and from the modem layout of the gallery as well.
Ichiyo had been standing still in front of this painting for quite a while.
Daiki wanted to protest—his father would be barking up the wrong tree. It was the publishing company who had put this one up, not him.
“…This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” Daiki managed to blurt out. “This one was from before I received your guidance, Father. But now it’s different. I do what you tell me now, so…”
Daiki continued to belittle himself, but Ichiyo silenced him.
“Daiki, why do you paint?”
It was an abrupt question. Daiki tried to answer simply, yet he could not answer at all. It was the first time anyone had ever asked him. Plus, Daiki didn’t exactly know why he painted pictures in the first place.
He would probably be asked that again in newspaper and television interviews: “What is painting to you?”
In those cases, he would answer, “It is my soul.” He would either say that or simply parrot a line from some artist whose book he had read. But this time it was different.
Daiki had only painted as he was told. For him to answer this question was impossible. Since he had never acted in accordance with his own free will, there was no way he could answer it. If he had to give an answer, it would be—“I do it for you.”
“…So you can’t answer?” Ichiyo spoke softly. “That’s why your painting is nonsense.”
Daiki almost protested in response. He had a strong urge to say, “I painted according to your orders. So why are you saying this now? What I learned from you was how to paint by the numbers, how to win awards. If that’s the case, then these are paintings without a soul, a pathetic attempt to copy Ikuma Ichiyo. And it was you who made me paint this way. If my paintings are nonsense, then so are yours!”
But his body refused to spit out these thoughts and emotions. Instead, he remained silent.
Ever since he was small he had trained himself not to display emotions that would defy Ichiyo. He would let them simmer and fester until they dissipated.
Daiki’s words were practiced. “I am sorry.”
Having heard those same words repeated over and over before, Ichiyo breathed out a sigh. In that same breath, out spilled words which evaded one’s hearing. “…Not there yet…still a ways to go…almost… please…”
“What?” Daiki tried to make his father repeat the words, but Ichiyo just turned his back and walked out. His retreating back seemed smaller than usual.
Somehow, it almost seemed as if Ichiyo was crying. Something strange was happening. Little by little, things were becoming odd.
Why did he ask me that? Daiki wondered. Why was he being scolded for this old drawing now? Daiki could not understand anything.
But the one thing he was certain of was that there would be more of this, happening over and over like a broken record. It would just continue. An eternity of darkness and sadness.
He couldn’t even see his shadow. The thing that had been stepped on was his heart.
—So that was it.
And on that same night, Ichiyo collapsed.