The Pop Artist

The Pop Artist was part of the many programs for the creatively talented. And when I say programs, I mean that any meeting with him becomes an art class on it’s own. And everyone and anyone he saw was dubbed as “creatively talented”.

I had sat at a small cafe when we had our first meeting, sketching away at Bucky Barnes in a fit of inspiration from the Civil War movie. I noticed his looming figure only seconds before he took it upon himself to sit down across from me, speaking to me as if I were an old friend. His gorgeous tresses were beams of sunlight sweeping over his left eye like water. A lipstick red headband held the rest at bay as his baby blue orbs glistened with his speech.

His words were like his eyes, a flood from open gapes, rapid, vast, and unending. His questions flowed, spiking every once in a while like jumping trout and my words attempted to fight the rushing current.

“Hold on!” I nearly slammed my sketchpad down. “Who are you?” I asked bluntly, knowing I may not have the opportunity to speak again. He spoke his name and extended his hand.

“Art student and future starving artist!” he added with gumption. I went to give him my hand when his went downward, snatching my mold-able eraser from the table. My chest flipped in utter embarrassment as if the word “awkward” was plastered all over my face. Though, The Pop Artist did not seem to notice as he fiddled with the eraser and continued to ask me questions.

What do you define your style as? Modern or traditional? What is your preferred medium? How much do you spend at Micheal’s? Daily?

And much to my surprise, I found myself weeks later with a balloon full of paint in his backyard as he ranted about being creative and marveling at our matching white t-shirts and jeans. He had set up a few canvases a ways away on color-stained concrete. They leaned on a pile of bricks with a few pieces of cinder block locking down the edges. But before I got to ask The Pop Artist about it, he pitched the colored balloon in what I could only describe as baseball player form. The canvas wobbled slightly before proving to hold on still. He picked up another one, smiling to me.

“Pop art! Get it?” he chuckled, before motioning for me to try. I tossed the orange sack as hard as I could, watching as it exploded against the white material. Watching as it did not move at all. I gulped but The Pop Artist only praised me.

We eventually fell into a rhythm of sorts. The whole time, my eyes darted to his seemingly scrawny arms in amazement and then to the powerful hits that struck the canvas.

“Hey, put on some music.” The Pop Artist suggested seemingly suddenly, snapping me out of one of my dazes. Whipping out my cellphone, I quickly put on the first thing I thought of.

We could, we could, belong together (art pop). We could, we could, belong together (art pop). We could, we could, belong together (art pop). Art pop. Art pop.” my speakers sang.

“Is this Lady Gaga?” The Pop Artist asked with a sunbeam grin.

“I thought it would be appropriate.” I grunted, hurling another balloon at the canvases.

“Rightfully so!” He yelled, and another balloon hit with extra rigor. I rolled my eyes, though regretting nothing.


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