Chapter 173:
WEAVING WHAT BYGONE DAYS
Megan’s POV
I had barely slept when the sun was already up, and in my mind, I was decided to pay another visit to the studio. The paintings which Max had made interested me. But there was more to it that I wanted to learn, about the past, and how it shaped him as an artist. I hoped today would provide me with answers.
I entered the studio to find Max already hunched over a new piece, his back to me. The room smelled thick with paint as the soft light from the morning sun danced all around. It was tenderly gentle.
“Good morning, Max,” I said, trying to sound casual as I approached.
Max turned, a smile lighting up his face. “Megan! You’re up so early. What brings you by so early?”
I sank into a chair nearby. “I have been thinking much about our conversations,” I said. “It’s this sense that there may be something driving you toward this thing or that within your art. Not to mention, I just-really would have liked to hear the story behind it.”
Max’s face became very thoughtful. “There is a story, indeed. My art’s always been a mirror of experiences and emotions,” though Max added, “Mileage may vary.” “If you’re really interested, we might have to go back a bit.” “I’m all ears,” I said because I was.
Max set his brush down and went over to the small bookshelf in the corner, pulled out an ancient leather-bound journal, and opened it gingerly. “This is where it all started. My sketches and notes from when I was just beginning.”
I hunched forward to have a good look, and the pages were loaded with quick sketches of different scenarios and notes on his thoughts and inspirations. “These are amazing, Max. It’s like looking inside your mind.”
“Exactly,” Max said, flipping through the pages. “This journal contains quite a lot of my personal musings, experiences. The art was my way of trying to process everything that was happening in my life.
“Can you tell me a bit more about those experiences?” my curiosity surfaced.
Max took a long, deep breath. “Man, I had a real tough growing up. My family was really screwed up, and things were crazy all the time. So art just became my way out-a way for me to understand everything that was happening around me. Each piece I made at the time depicted what was going on inside of me.”
“I had no idea,” I said with compassion. “It makes me think that art was so important to you.”
“It was,” Max agreed, adding, “It helped me describe emotions which I couldn’t put into words. For years, art became my journal to express all my feelings, or so I thought-the only way to express myself, where I would pour out all the pain, hopes, and dreams onto canvas.”
The more he talked, the more I felt a bond with Max. There was something about his vulnerability and openness that disarmed me. “I can see that in your work now. It’s like each painting tells a story.
“That’s the idea,” Max nodded. “I want people to feel what I did, to experience the journey I made. Art’s more than just pictures; it’s a dialogue between me and the viewer.”
I looked more particularly at one which was very inspiriting. The waves were breaking and smashing up against a dark sky. “What’s the story behind this one?”
Max stepped back from the painting for a minute. “That one is a period of my life when everything was a bit too much for me. The stormy sea symbolizes the turmoil that had then started in my head. I felt helpless and like there was nothing better ahead of life.”
“It is incredible how you define them,” I said, quite in awe. “Doesn’t it get tough sometimes to be an artist and relive the emotions through human representations?
“Sometimes,” Max admitted. “But it’s also cathartic. The revisiting of those emotions-it makes you understand them a little more. It’s closure, in a way.”
We both sat in an uncomfortable silence for a second as the weight of his words settled into my mind. “Max, how did you find the strength to keep pushing forward, especially during those tough times?”
Max grew thoughtful. “Art was my salvation, but wasn’t nearly enough. I had people in my corner, mentors who believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. They taught me that all of my struggles could be turned into something beautiful.”
“That’s very inspiring,” I answered. “It’s like you have gone through a lot but have just made it into something else.”
“I try,” he said, smiling a little. “It is not always so easy, but it is worth trying for. I wish my art to be a testament to the human spirit.”
As Max spoke, I couldn’t help but reflect on my journey: challenges recently, my take on Chris, the constant need to prove myself-no doubt a little overwhelming at times. Yet, Max’s story reminded me that we do have the strength for overcoming struggle.
“You know, Max,” I said, my voice steady, “I’ve been dealing with a lot of my own crap lately. It’s nice to know that others have faced similar struggles and somehow made it through them.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Max. A pair of blue eyes jolted my gaze. “At times, by sharing our stories, we raise the courage of many.
“I have found that to be correct,” I agreed. “So, talking about all those experiences has helped me make meaning out of everything and find a way through.”
But what art can do is that it really sort of can function as a representation. It allows one to share experiences with others and bond on deeper levels.
The more we talked, the more brotherly I felt toward Max. He had opened up so much about his past life that I actually felt closer to him than I had ever felt.
As I was leaving, Max passed me a small sketch he had made in his journal. “Here. I want you to have this. It’s something I did during one of my times that were really hard. I kind of hope it resonates with you.”
I took the sketch. I was touched by the act. “Thank you, Max. It does mean so much to me.”
Max smiled back. “You’re welcome. And thank you for being open to hearing my story. It’s not something that I share with many.”