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Now, years later, he had been commissioned to fashion pictures with sugar water and dyes, a holiday mural. He had risen into something he could do, he had been recognized, and those years spent enduring his father's impatience seemed far away. He would do it for number 98,761,580, his love whose hand he held, cold as it was, who had lain beside him in the tunnels, in the filth. What had haunted him was the thought of her lovely body wasting away. It had torn at his eyes, his throat. It had taken away his faith. He painted a band of sugar on the walls of the hotel, the mural reflecting the city back to itself - the deep green park, the holiday windows, lovers under golden angels, flowers spilling out of markets in December, a resurrected skyscraper, a choir of variegated faces singing in front of a red door of a dark church, the homeless - not swept away, not forgotten - their realities on their faces, hands, hair. It was not a Rockwell. There were a few artists, subcontractors, who kept trying to abscond with the project, to make it what it wasn't for the sake of something they likened to a good make-believe before bed. -- 'A Potter's Field ↗
Pero ni los conventos tienen muros bastante elevados, ni las madres tienen cerraduras suficientemente complicadas, ni la religión deberes lo necesariamente estrechos para encerrar a esos encantadores pajarillos en sus jaulas, sobre las cuales apenas nos dignamos a arrojar algunas flores. Y es que ellas sienten irresistibles deseos de conocer ese mundo que tan cuidadosamente se les oculta, anhelan penetrar el enigma que creen tan tentador, escuchan conmovidas la primera voz que a través de los barrotes llega a sus oídos contándoles secretos y bendice la primera mano que alza una pluma del velo misterioso. ↗
What I remember most clearly is how it felt. I’d just finished painting a red fire engine-like the one I often walked past near my grandparents’ house. Suddenly the teachers, whose names I've long forgotten, closed in on my desk. They seemed unusually impressed, and my still dripping fire engine was immediately and ceremoniously pinned up. I don’t know what they might have said, but their unexpected attention and having something I’d made given a place of honor on the wall created an overwhelming and totally unfamiliar sense of pride inside me. I loved that feeling, and I wanted to feel it again and again. That desire, I suppose, was the beginning of my career. I have no idea where my fire engine painting ended up, but I never forgot the basic layout. Several decades later, it served as the inspiration for this sketch for an illustration in a book called Why the chicken crossed the Road. ↗
people who only love once in their lives are really shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or the lack of imagination. Faithlessness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the intellectual life,—simply a confession of failure. ↗
There are times when the world around you becomes so quiet, so silent in the midst of your achievements. No wows, no congrats absolutely zilch. You just have to learn to keep it together, move forward and never stop believing in yourself, never stop loving yourself and the things you love to do that made you the person you are right now. Be proud of yourself. ↗
There is nothing we could ever do to make God love us more; there is nothing we can do to make Him love us less. ↗
