Still raining in Hong Kong
Today I can speak about the landscape that an unknown desperate artist drew: it was one of my father’s paintings, dark and somehow violet, hung on the living room wall. It was a landscape of cosmic solitude: a man was walking alone, late in the evening, facing a windy storm (his mantel was stirred, his walk was difficult), and behind him there was a poor land washed by such sentiments of solitude and poverty, washed in terms of lack of recognisable elements and colours too, as if the artist would have wanted to save pigments and brush. There was a ground slope towards nothing, and the darkness of the sky. There was a wall on the right side, dead yellow, pale, wet, and also that piece of colour was more a lack, a lack of intention, of love, than a real stain.
My father bought that painting as a memento, to remember the privilege of having a house, a family.
My mother hated it, immediately, because it was distressing, without a glimmer of hope.
However, the landscape came to life by itself and became soon real (and that existence was the most mesmerizing phenomenon of that painting) as if it was an aerial view of another side of our life—which you had to take in account.
Today I miss my father and my mother so much so that I feel like walking alone.