The Koi Painting

I remember that old Chinese painting my father bought a few years back. Back then, it wasn’t old. Fresh and crisp it was, that roll of pristine parchment, with the glorious colours of the painting splayed across it. It was kept in a greeny-blue, long thin rectangular box that was cut in the middle, so that we could let the precious painting roll out from either side, unroll it fully and let observers behold its majestic beauty.

But we neglected it when we flew over from Singapore, the painting amongst the numerous objects brought back to my birth home, the island continent Australia. We were living in a rented house for the first three years of our re-established Australian lives, and the house was crammed to the top with aged books. There was simply no space for the painting to hang.

Even then, it was lost in the garage of junk we possessed. As a typical busy Australian family, we weren’t bothered to move our lazy arses into a dusty garage and search for it, let alone take down a Margaret Preston painting to make way if it was unearthed. Only when we had thoroughly weeded out the junk in preparation for our newly bought home did we discover it, in a slightly more run-down condition than when it was purchased.

It now hangs in our living room, beside the mahogany double doors that mark the area. It occupies a little corner beside sofa, stereo and cream wall, rolled out for the first time in four years. We feared for its health when we found it. Its protective sheath, once a jade green scribed with dragons and symbols, was now a dull, algae-like hue, its golden inscriptions long faded.

The painting too had lost its bolder edge, although the light colours that characterised it were as joyful as ever. Its background was a light blue, almost sky-like, had it not been for the koi that swam in its expanse. I remembered asking my father once whether koi were sky fish, even though I already knew the answer. After pondering for a while, he asked whether it was possible for soft green sea-grass to grow in the sky, amongst the koi. As a science whizz-kid then, I could have suggested hydroponics, but unfortunately my father closed the subject when he had to attend to an urgent conference call, and we never continued the conversation.

Sometimes, when I’m lounging on the sofa, bored out of my head and picking at the threads of cushions, I would look up and see that painting opposite me. I would count the koi in it, four black, four orange, arranged in an interesting spiral from bottom to top. The black koi would often accompany the orange ones, lurking like shadows beside them, but the fifth, and leading koi swam aloof and alone from the pack. All around them, green tufts of sea grass would grow, illuminating their way.

It was the tranquility and the simplicity of the piece that often heightened the respect scale that I kept count of, for the mysterious painter of this painting. His name was sealed in Chinese at the corner of the painting, in red seal ink of course, but when I was younger I was convinced he wrote it in his own blood, so red was the ink. Even when I learnt otherwise, I was adamant that it was a possibility; after all, blood could be a physical reminder of how much the artist put his soul into his artwork, with such beautiful colours flowing from his brush onto the parchment.

When my respect scale was beyond measuring, and my impatience beyond containment, I finally plucked the opportunity to ask Dad what the artist was trying to convey in his painting.

“It’s really up to interpretation, dear,” he said with raised eyebrows, “I just think it’s a lovely representation of koi, in nature and the wild.”

“Doesn’t every picture paint a thousand words? I’m sure it has a story about it.” I insisted, my lip jutting out stubbornly.

“Of course every picture has a story to it. But although we might never know the story, that’s fine too, because paintings do deserve questions unanswered. They’re much more beautiful that way.”

“Hmm.” I muttered, unconvinced. After all, I was a logical person, and I hated vague answers. A hand descended upon my shoulder and I looked up into Dad’s knowledgeable eyes.

“All artwork has meaning, whether it is discernable or not. This koi painting is just the same. Don’t worry about it so much. It’s there to be enjoyed, not puzzled over.”

Slowly, I cast my eyes over the koi painting. Dad was right again. My whole body began to relax and the creases disappeared from my forehead. My mouth moved into an unfamiliar shape, and I realised in a window reflection that I was smiling.

“Chinese art is certainly wonderful, isn’t it?” I said to Dad, fingering the parchment.

“It certainly is, and I particularly like this one. Do you?” His eyes twinkled.

I gave the painting a long look, the smile broadening on my face as my eyes traced the paint strokes and the gentle swirls of the background, “I definitely do.”