You

Lines and waves,
Distorted characters,
I am diseased by your blood.
Confront me,
Abrupt and blurry,
Seep into my skin my slow demise,
Beckon to me my intimate revival.
Sing to me
My requiem.

The Tauran

This interview was one of the final projects of the creative writing course that I had done, and it is in fact an approximation of an interview. By this I mean that I've recorded my experience of taking the interview instead of conforming to the usual conventions of an interview. The experience was refreshing, the results, well I would rather let you see for yourself.

The mission: An interview.
It's the journalism aspect of creative writing he says. I'm not listening to him anymore... I'm too preoccupied wondering whom I want to interview. I couldn't think of anyone off the top of my head, looks like I might get stuck making up an interview.

Friday.
We did a collaboration with the drawing and painting class. There were so many styles, so many artists, so much created with just one stick of black coal. But one caught my eye. I'm interviewing this guy, I told myself. And I did.

How to ask him though? How to request the pleasure of his company for an hour, to ask him the questions I have written down? I was pretty gutsy about it, surprisingly so. Walking back from lunch on Friday, I saw him.
How to catch his attention? He's walking in front of me, he can't see me wave. I call out. So awkward, so uncertain, "Oye! Hey, um... Oye!" I didn't even know his name. Was there any other way to get him to turn around? To give me a first glance? I remained oblivious to Jeddie laughing her face off beside me.
He turned around...Finally.

His friend was smirking. I'm told that, being a girl, asking a guy for an interview is considered an excuse to get to know him.

Ahem it wasn't.

"Hi, um, I saw your work in charcoal and I really liked it, I was wondering if I could interview you for a class assignment", smooth... real smooth...
"Oh you're from the creative writing class huh? Well yeah sure I don't mind"
Yay.

Monday. He had a field trip.
Tuesday. I had a field trip.

Wednesday. I carried out the long-awaited interview. Another awkward moment... I walked up to him (still didn't know his name...) and asked him if we could meet for lunch (a date? ... no). When else was I supposed to carry out an hour-long interview?

My friends were convinced, however, that I was about to embark on a date... because an interview is definitely very romantic (cough). So of course, as any good friend would do (thank you Amanda), they began to dole out fleshy bits of advice. Not that this helped my nervousness.

The interview finally began at the Collegepoint cafe on (you guessed it) College Street. I asked him several questions; the first of which were the 'suggested' questions, the last of which I was actually interested in knowing. We spoke in quick succession. I don't think he liked awkward silences either.

What can I say about this artist?
That he's an animal lover. That he prefers the cold to the heat. That he's shy and reserved. That he likes chocolate. That he paints for no one but himself. That he listens to music and has a cat. That he works best in charcoal. That he smiles a lot. And that he's extremely picky about his friends. He's isolated in solitude and wouldn't want it any other way.

But he probably wouldn't hug a tree to save it. Pity...
I would.

His birthday's twenty days after mine, but we're not of the same zodiac. He's a Tauran:
Patient and reliable (admirable)
Warmhearted and loving (ooh)
Persistent and determined (shouldn't be any other way)
Jealous and possessive (I wouldn't know)
Self-indulgent and greedy (a little bit's healthy I suppose)

He doesn't plan to pursue art as a career though. "Just a passionate hobby", he tells me. Sure that makes sense right? I mean art's not the most sustaining profession unless you're the best? Then again who decides that?

"I'm pretty interested in the computer sciences. You know, programming and stuff. Not animation, I'm more inclined towards simulation programs", he says with a weak smile.
Why is art so hostile to those who dare to pursue it?

I smile back.
We artists understand each other. I think.

We had fifteen minutes left, and I still wanted pictures of his work. It was an interesting experience, limiting our interview to an hour. Insufficient, but satisfying nonetheless.

So this is how a journalist feels when the interview's over.
That was it. I don't know if I'm to talk to this artist ever again. I don't know if there're any possibilities of a familiarity.

Maybe there is.

That would be nice.




I stare straight, dreaming, wondering.
The wood stares back, showing off its weathered surface with condescending pride.
Charred, scratched and worn, it is experienced. Wise.
It stares at me, the lines of its withered age showing through the charcoal and paint.
He sits atop the wooden bench, oblivious to my frantic notes.
I watch him, my feet black with the same charcoal that guides his fingers toward creation.
My mind swims, unable to comprehend the movement of his hands, swift, precise, final.
The wood stares at me. Accusing, convicting.
My art is different.
I don't belong here, I was never meant to be an innocent bystander to the crime of art.
Never meant to be a coward to the daring spirit of the artist.
Yet I am.
Yet I try to capture the precision and grace of those hands.
I try to trap their vast inspiration with my insufficient words.
The wood stares at me.
How dare you, it whispers.