Shades of Gray
Photo by Keith Ayuman
Photo Manipulation by Zach Borromeo
This piece is dedicated to Francis Ian Palanca, who helped me see that there are colors within me that I ignored.
Dark on pale.
Black on white.
Gray on gray.
My brush dances on the canvas, sliding, tapping, the occasional sprinkling – yet all color is nil. A gray river. A gray forest. A gray sky lit up by gray stars. Nothing is different, not even this room. Gray walls. Gray tables. A gray artist in a gray room.
I beheld the vividness of colors once, but in a painful irony, I gradually lost sight of all the colors I used to play with. I barely noticed it at first. I cannot even point out exactly when it began, but I just saw one day that the pigments I used were not as bright anymore. I once walked past two children standing in awe before the flowers of spring. To me, they looked no different from the snows of winter.
Soon, the colors became nothing but a distant memory. The harmony, the conflict, the stories each thread of light tells — I missed them. I begged for help, yet how can one define colors to another who cannot see them?
“I’ve always found your style peculiar, Mr. Hobbes,” I hear the voice of a young man say — Calvin at the door. I wish I knew the color he wore. The kid’s smile slowly turns to something of a frown. “I noticed the boxes outside.”
“I’m leaving the school for good, boy.” I look back at the canvas, ageing hand fighting to hold the brush. It is of no use. Everything is a shade of gray. “I asked them to let me finish this first.” Feeling the lump on my throat, I continue, “I believe I can never do my craft again.”
Calvin’s thin brows furrow, gray eyes widening, surveying the corners of the room. “Mr. Hobbes.” He looks down at the floorboards. “Would you mind if I leave for now?”
Dark on pale.
Black on white.
Gray on gray.
It has been three years since I last beheld the vividness of colors, three days since I last saw Calvin. I convince myself that I am used to this. Little untruths to cover the pain.
“Mr. Hobbes?” Calvin is there at the door, his hand clutching a brush that looks like mine. “Would you allow me—” he turns his head away from me, eyes falling on the canvas. “Would you allow me to help you with this piece?”
“Want me to leave sooner, Calvin?” I jest.
“No, sir, I just wanna spend a little more time here.” His eye expels a single drop. This brings me back to the time I first met him, just outside this room. Crying. Apologizing. Saying he thought my place was vacant. I welcomed him in, and for once, the emptiness in the room disappeared.
Dark on pale.
Black on white.
Gray on gray.
Yet Calvin insists the painting is as vibrant as it can be. He said a day ago I painted the night sky red instead of the blue that I intended. With his aid, we turned midnight to dawn.
“Not bad,” says Calvin. Before him is the sky. “There are just stray streaks of pale blue in the forest. We can work on that, I guess.”
“We can turn the landscape to winter. It is easier that way.”
“Nah, Mr. Hobbes. The spring is great as it is.”
Dark on pale.
Black on white.
Gray on gray.
My senses are lying to me. I know there are colors on this canvas. A little truth to heal the pain.
Calvin places his elbow on my shoulder. “It’s beautiful, Mr. Hobbes,” he whispers. “We got the tiny details right. This is something you haven’t done in a while.”
“In what way?”
“You got the colors right.”
“All I see is gray.”
“D’you think I haven’t figured out yet, Mr. Hobbes?” Calvin reaches for my wrinkled hand, leads me to touch the canvas and guides me along its surface. “Feel this part here? Each tree is its own shade of green, viridian, pine, you call it. Then this here, the blossoms throughout the floor, they’re lavender and yellow. They’re bright against this emerald foliage — hues in perfect harmony. This river, you touch it? Cobalt and aqua are fighting for dominance, Mr. Hobbes. You can trace their flow going down here, white rapids along the way. Then the sunrise, Mr. Hobbes, by Jove. It’s black to white.”
“In that part, I’m right then, Calvin?”
“No, sir. Black and white, and a gradient of all colors in between. Black to blue, to green, orange here and there, turning red and yellow and white as we approach the sun. It’s a wonderful story, I tell you, Mr. Hobbes.”
Calvin lets go of my hand as we reach the sun. I spread my palm over it.
Dark on pale.
Black on white.
And blue on green, on orange, on red, on yellow.
I still do not see them, but there exists a world beyond my lying senses. “I am aware, Calvin, that you cannot fix my eyes for me, but knowing the colors are there in their right place is enough to comfort me.” I feel a tear run across my face.
I see Calvin’s lips slowly quiver, which ended in a sigh. “May I tell you something, Mr. Hobbes?”
“Go ahead, boy.”
“You stopped taking classes before I came to this school, but I’ve heard about you and your reputation. If there’s another world, and I end up being in your class, I know all the trouble will be worth it.”
Dark on pale.
Black on white.
Gray on gray.
I smile.
Perhaps out of the pride of the aged, I dare not tell him that I am indebted to him. Yes, Calvin cannot bring back the colors I dearly miss. I will find help when I am ready, but for now, his presence would suffice.
