VIOLET KALEIDOSCOPE. CLOSED, THEN EYELIDS OPEN AGAIN TO SEE LEAVES PUSHED BY THE WIND. IT’S COLD. MY BREATH IN THE AIR. UP THE STAIRS TO UPSTAIRS WHERE WE LIVE. I CAN SEE
PAST OUR BRICKS TO OTHER BRICK BUILDINGS. I’D LIKE TO GRAB MY MARKER AND DRAW. LOOK TO MY PA. HE SMILES THROUGH HIS BEARD. I TUG AT IT. HE HANDS ME A GREEN ONE, PUTS A PIECE OF PAPER UP, A
PAINTING OF HIS HANGING ABOVE WHAT I’M DRAWING. IT’S SO COLORFUL. I’M STANDING IN HIS SHADOW. I SCRIBBLE. MY MOM LAUGHS. I MUST HAVE DONE SOMETHING GREAT. TIME FOR A BREAK. I LOWER MY HEAD,
FALL ASLEEP WITH THEM IN MY PERIPHERY. HE WAKES UP WITH THE KGB KNOCKING AT HIS DOOR FOR THE PIECES HE PAINTED AND EXHIBITED THE WEEK BEFORE. HE’S HIDING ARTWORK UNDER HIS FLOOR AGAIN.
RUMORS ABOUT THAT CIRCULATED BACK TO THIS PARTICULAR OFFICER. HE’S HERE TO PUT AN END TO IT. LOCK MY FATHER AWAY WITH THE REST OF HIS FRIENDS IN THE MOVEMENT. LIFE ON THE LINE JUST TO PROVE
THAT THE PEOPLE STILL HAVE A RIGHT. WOULD I HAVE THAT KIND OF COURAGE LATER DOWN THE LINE WHEN I’M ALIVE? HARD NOT TO BE A CONSPIRACY THEORIST AFTER ALL YOUR FRIENDS HAVE DIED UNDER A SUBWAY
TRAIN, OR IN AN APARTMENT FIRE, BECAUSE OF THINGS THAT YOU BELIEVED IN AND DECIDED TO WRITE. PUT A BRUSH TO THE CANVAS AND ASPIRE TO FLY. HANDCUFFS ON, EYES CLOSED, HOW COULD HE SURVIVE THIS
LIFE? I OPEN MY EYES. BEEN SOME TIME SINCE HE LEFT. AND EVEN THOUGH HE BROUGHT OUR FAMILY TO THE U.S. WHERE I’M FREE TO EXPRESS MYSELF, BUT STILL A SLAVE TO DEBT, REPEATEDLY MAKING ART FOR
SOMEONE ELSE’S FINANCIAL BENEFIT. CATALOGUING HIS WORKS WHILE LISTENING TO MY CATALOGUE OF WORDS. REFLECTING. WONDERING WHETHER MY PASSION IS DWARFED. AM I STILL IN HIS SHADOW? OR HAVE
I ECLIPSED IT? IS THE LIGHT INSIDE BRIGHT ENOUGH? IS IT WORTH FIXING? AND WHO REALLY MAKES THEIR OWN DECISIONS? AM I AN ARTIST BECAUSE I WANTED TO BE, OR DID HE GIVE ME THAT AMBITION? THAT WAS
SUPPORTED BY MY MOM AND SISTER, THAT WAS TOSSED INTO THE SYSTEM, BUT BRED BY THE RESISTANCE. THAT’S AN INTERESTING MIX THEN, PUTTING A PRICE ON MY PASSION SO I CAN ENJOY LIVING. BUT IT’S
CATCHING UP. STARING AT A SCREEN I’VE HAD ENOUGH. NOW I’M GOING THROUGH SHED AFTER SHED OF HIS PAINTINGS, STACKED UP. I SEE THE SIGNS. WHAT WOULD HE HAVE DONE? I’M TRYING TO ADD IT UP.