American Dreamland

Bob gazed at George’s face on the canvas. The convicted former president was smiling, but only a little, suggesting amiability, yet serious enough to give the impression of a steely toughness. Bob wasn’t sure either was true. He liked George, which surprised him. Even made him feel guilty, perhaps, for judging the man before this week’s visit. This portrait would make his family happy. They would pay him well for his work. He didn’t need any more money. George would say he did a good job, shake his hand and send him back to San Antonio. George would go back to Crawford, still fretting about writing a book, what he would say, who would care. Bob took out a canvas, and set it on another easel, started to mix some of his paints. He brushed some broad strokes on the surface, letting the brush travel until it ran dry. He dabbed on some red, some blue, some black. He started to form an oval, then a rectangle. His hand moved as if independent of human direction. Bob let his mind soak in the silence of the room, the movement of his arm and hand. He gave into whatever inclination his mind directed, moving the brush back and forth, up and to the side, until he needed more paint to repeat the process. He painted for the next three hours.