The Boy Who Saw in Colours by Lauren Robinson

Author:Lauren Robinson [Robinson, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781648712784
Publisher: Lauren Robinson
Published: 2020-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

23

Tumbling Colours

*Tenné*Thistle*Teszopiggyt

I stood with a quiet voice and a loud mind in the line of boys. A picture was taken, and plausibly would have made it into history books in years to come. Perhaps you even saw me. I wasn’t hard to spot. An awkward boy in the back, with a forced, painted smile. Can you see Tomas, too? A black and white angel in the back. Yes, we teased him relentlessly for that. Somehow, Tomas was even paler than the rest of us. In pictures, it made him look colourless and waxlike. He was someone you noticed.

In the end, boys were already starting to fix their appearance. Untucking shirts. Pulling down neck scarves. You needed just the right amount of scruffiness. I was in mid-tease of Rouvon when Kröger plucked me from the line.

“You.”

“Yes, Mein Herr?”

“You like to paint?”

“Very much so.”

“Then make yourself useful.”

And just like that, red, black, and white paint cans were shoved into my arms. It was my new job to paint the flags. At first, I did just that, but as my predisposition for trouble making grew, the banners I painted changed, too. Disinterested in the dull red, black, and white, I made pink. Light pink. Dark pink. I mixed and mixed until the shade was just right. I quivered with excitement. Rosy cheek pink was much nicer, don’t you agree?

The world loved the Swastika until Hitler stole it. It’s a symbol for German people, but not in the way you’re thinking. For years, it was a symbol of well-being and good fortune in many parts of the world, used by Buddhists, Hindus, and Jains. Yet, in the twisted telephone line game that is history, it became something that invoked fear and dominance. Add a little black and red, and it’s suddenly chilling. I wonder if it will ever dust off its evil associations and walk freely.

My painting style changed throughout the years. I was no longer concerned with tiny details. I used broad, energetic brush strokes. I painted with anger. Instead of holding it in and letting it slowly destroy me, until the old me didn’t exist anymore, I took it out on my paintings, in the flags.

Those who came to observe didn’t scold me – a silly child with a vivid imagination they presumed. The flag dominated the walls. Every colour was bold and innocent. They seemed to be stable but tumble at the same time. Like myself, I think. Seemingly stable, but always free-falling on the inside. Soft, but lampooning anyone who sparks my insecurities without meaning to, often feeling painted onto the background, like there isn’t really anything of substance inside. I hope there is. I hope there is more meaning in my bones than tumbling colours and chaotic lines.

Years earlier, painting in the basement was one of my favourite things to do. Mother’s face was lit with vexation. I hadn’t completed my maths homework because I couldn’t. I tried to explain. “The numbers get mixed up…”

“I can’t hear you.” Mother cut through.

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