An Assessment In Frailty
Kreffan Bunker
Nov 10 2020
An Assessment In Frailty
Franklin Sprawl claimed he’d make a renowned painting, only very recently. This came about while the old man was finishing up a home tour. The last house was adorned with many splendid artworks. On the upper floor, beside the locked office room, hung an early landscape by an esteemed Southern California artist. Though these were mostly civilized people, they were also quite curious—the guide struggled to keep them outside the recommended two foot radius.
But not Franklin, he was well within proper home tour customs. After taking a brief look at the piece, Franklin retreated to the back of the row of spectators. The guide attempted to usher them away onto the next section. However, this was in vain; they continued to close the gap and some even pulled out their phones. “For crying out loud, it’s not a godly depiction!” They all (including the ineffective guide) turned heads to see who would be so bold. Franklin relished in the astonished murmurs. “Hey, bottom line: it’s a watercolor.”
Not one for conflictual behavior, the guide squeaked and anxiously eyed the shut office door. The bulk of the intimate assembly were displeased by the opinionated old man. Many growled or stamped their feet on the Dutch flooring—A shame because before the incident it was pristine. Despite the protests, Franklin went on, “I bet, I could buy practically the same thing at the Autumn village festival coming up. Oh, I do hope I can spare the twenty dollars from my account!” The guide begged him, with downward hand motions, to lower the volume. Trying to give the guy proper address, he squinted his eighty four year old eyes at his nametag. “Come off it, Randy! This cultural event shouldn’t be an outlet for propaganda; don’t smother my justified criticisms. Hear me out… Zorpes, or whatever, is hardly worth your admirations—That goes for all the other art displayed in these various homes too. Actually, I’d extend that even further; I haven’t been impressed with any works, whatsoever, in my horribly long life! You all have got to be kidding me!”
The office door opened nonchalantly, while Randy quivered. “Really? I, for one, considered you yourself an unmatched visionary.” The homeowner, Robert Lash, had decided to intervene. “What should I make of such a compliment?” “Cherished guests feel free to take a seat while I issue my explanation,” pointing at Franklin, he continued, “this man has assumed the most exceptional creative endeavors. Naturally, he’s immortalized in the town hall foyer; Recall the photograph of Mr. Sprawl, at four, chalking the underbelly of Lantana park’s stage days after construction. Naughty, but profound.” The age gap between them was too wide, otherwise Franklin would’ve thrown punches. Lash wobbled in false ponderance. “And let us not forget the brilliancy behind…Hmm, not much else to work with. No, no I retract my former praise; his life is not the slightest bit substantive. When the obituary comes, in a month maybe, it will read Franklin Sprawl, oxygen thief.”
Franklin first met Lash several years back at an estate sale, he had helped the old man load a dresser onto his truck. That pleasant impression he’d made had since corroded. Striving to be dominant, he resented the sympathetic stares of the crowd. “Quit it!” The homeowner latched onto his wrist and steered him towards a petite wicker chair directly diagonal the landscape. “You are tired, sit down and enjoy the painting. Don’t fret, I know your body mass is a mere feather to this chair.” Shaking off his grip, Franklin penetrated the dense crowd wall encircling the art. He stood an inch from it. Lash bolted to him, while the guide hid in the newly renovated
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lavatory. “Its destruction would be mighty consequential. Expect to be arrested lunatic!” The homeowner grabbed Franklin’s shoulders, but he batted the hand away. Shifting to face him, Franklin said, “What an idea, but I won’t. Instead I’ll put you in your place another way. I will paint something far better than anything you’ve collected. My finished product will have success enough to taunt you until death!” Waving the tour onward, Lash held firm. “Though, I cannot criticize you for your lack of sensitivity as I have none. I will for your lack of talent, courtesy, and accountability. Now, Leave.” Not wanting his inner hysteria to surface, he left the group and descended the stairs.
Before the front exit laid an eleventh century Persian rug. He scoffed at the thing and stepped out onto the patio. The plastic tub against the doorway reminded him of the hazmat socks he was wearing. Momentarily, he thought to steal them. However, they were easily replaceable and were provided by the city. A pity, as Franklin wanted to serve Lash some misfortune. Seating himself on a nearby bench, he pried off the prescribed footwear. After properly discarding them, he approached a pair of luncheon tables to the side. He took interest in a dish of cream cheese, but not due to hunger. The trash bin was similar enough to the plastic tub: both about three feet, circular and opaque. What’s more is the lateness of the day meant no more foot traffic and no one was supervising the entrance. His bases were covered. When the tour group came down they were introduced to quite the mess; the trashcan was relocated beside the doorway and a nibbled bagel had fallen indoors smearing cream cheese on the antique rug. It seemed a most terrible accident had occurred.
Back home, Franklin searched for the necessary supplies. It was arduous work seeing as his house was littered with miscellaneous items. He had tried to be a writer. Not faring well, he attempted pottery. Abandoning that, he pursued athletics, but it was short lived given by then he was already past fifty. Prior to these pursuits, he sought to be a painter, beginning in watercolor of all things. The recognition never came; the old man had yet to disperse from the masses. His existence was either subtle and mute or loud and distasteful. Inspecting the watercolor kit, he realized the paint ovals were completely crusted out. And what would he paint on? There were no useable pages left in his watercolor sheet booklet—the remaining pages had fierce pencil marks which couldn’t be covered up. He had only the faintest inclination to continue his domestic search, so the store was out of the question. He hated the medium, anyway.
Eventually, the old man stumbled upon a stock board of wood in his filing cabinet. Shortly thereafter, he discovered various loose brushes under a foldable table. Accompanying them were sealed paint bottles: All the standard colors were there. It was settled; he’d use acrylics. He cleared the pogo stick and badminton set off the table. They could be placed in his shed later, but doing that now would just be cause for distraction as that was full of a plethora of discards. Once the table had been wiped, he acquired a stool of compatible height. Then, he filled tap water into a retired licorice container and set it on the table. His good pallet was indisposed; during a meltdown last month, he had lodged it deep in the backyard soil. Fortunately, he had a pie tin that could do the trick. Within no time, he established an adequate workspace. Without formal training, motivation would be his sole instructor. Gripping the stool for balance, with the other hand he reached for the purple. To maintain his happy composure, he felt obligated to involve his favorite color. The neck hovered above the tin and spurted paint. Seeing the sizeable paint accumulation so exposed he understood he hadn’t a plan. An immediate frustration seized him. The bottle dropped into the shallow pool beneath. Pinching his head, he leapt from the stool. He wondered why he didn’t first outline some figures. Now, the paint was out! The indefinite background reinforced his discomfort. He felt an urgent pressure to get it right.
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Franklin whisked the water with a fan brush to attain moisture, then ran it through the paint. He swatted the wooden board leaving a glob of purple. Hastily, he tried to undo the harsh progress by dabbing it off with a paper towel. Some of the stain couldn’t help but linger. He regretted the erratic decisions, no matter their frequency. Fine art would likely require strict discipline.
In order to save the vulnerable paint, he fastened paper towels over the tin. The brush was resituated in the water. He straightened up the rest of the table—his exhaustion mandated he momentarily step away. Leaving the room, he decided to shower.
After Franklin withdrew from his clothes, he set his glasses on the wall railing. This was done with much caution as not to bump the nearby porcelain fox figurine. The hot shower cooled his anxiety. The old man scarcely looked at himself naked, but the shame did not infringe on his cleanliness. He usually spent a productive twenty minutes. His body was thoroughly lathered and rinsed. Between his crooked back and saggy posterior, one may expect him to become discouraged. And yet, he did persevere; the practice was easy for him given its intimate capacity. Artistry was a whole different animal—he struggled to excel. The distinction was one of personal versus public validation thus he felt powerless. So, he often procrastinated hoping luck would just intervene. However, his advanced age fueled a restless urge for completion. Given the wooden board was uncalculatingly altered, he wanted to start fresh. If he took his time, rash mistakes would be avoided leading to a much steadier pace of work and in effect a better end-product.
Following his shower, Franklin carried the wooden board to the indoor trash bin. The metal drawer wouldn’t slide out even when he pulled with both hands. Seeing as it was stuck, he’d try the recycling. The door was much more cooperative, but the bin trolley was full. He set it on the counter on standby, deciding to take the bags out first. When he got to the entryway, he realized the dark had come. The street bins were far, he felt scared—someone could jump him outside. The recycling bags were tied and set down for the morning.
Jolting from bed at 3 o’clock, he returned to the kitchen counter for the wooden board. He flipped it exposing the bulky rectangle frame and began carving the middle section out with his pocket knife. Fortunately, the board hadn’t chanced the bag-inherent residues. Now, he recognized that his art needn’t be confined to default sizes. In fact, the back of the board was unblemished by paint and could be what he wanted. Having no tools more exact, he kept on with his slothful approach. This certainly proved a test for his patience. The knife incisions were tight; his clenched hand rode the frame perimeter. Quickening the pace would cost the skin off his knuckles. That aside, he might slip out of the groove. He wouldn’t dare risk wounding the smooth middle. Initially, the cuts rotated sides to secure even levels of depth though many minutes passed with near invisible progress. Franklin, wanting a morale boost, honed in on one of the two smaller sides and cut solely there for a while. Forty minutes later, he had sliced in deep. Checking the front of the board, he saw a procession of blisters. The knife drove the length of them. When he retracted from the wood, a fine slit arose. He was proud of the achievement. The pain derived from his thumb pinning the plastic hilt ring down on his index finger seemed worthwhile. He started on the alternate short side. During his descent into the wood, he repositioned his thumb distorting the knife angle. It skidded the frame, briefly. His fist would have to dodge splinters! He reattempted the incision, going too far inward at the last moment; again, splinters afflicted the wood. He felt like a break. When he jerked the knife out, it folded down on the tip of his index finger. He was frustrated enough to ignore the pain until the blood prodded his conscious.
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Once bandaged, Franklin terminated his break as to sooner be done with his splintery chore. As long as his body permitted, he could finish in 4 hours, at least by morning. Likely, he’d mess up plenty more. However, he expected all damage to keep to the frame thus being trivial. The second side was cut, unsurprisingly, with the adjoining frame ravaged. Still, it was a pristine cut. The next side, much longer, proved nothing short of a challenge. He sliced right across the edge, desperate to make a trench. Its great length made it easier for him to veer off from the perimeter—a trench would lessen such opportunities. As he got more familiar with the motion, his pace accelerated. The incision line was much wider than those before, consequently having more variance in edge texture. The trench became well established and Franklin trusted his hand’s steadiness. More concerned that the board might move, he paused cutting and moved it onto the floor. Not that the counter was exceptionally slick, but he valued precaution. Also, since it was down on the tile his chances for getting light headed minimized. He planted his knees on top of two frame corners, then resumed cutting. Soon, he recovered to his previous quick pace. Given the sloped edge of the board, the knife sped upwards without indication. Until, he felt his knife skid. A brief, hair-thin, slice had crept into the otherwise smooth middle. Distraught, he sprang up slammed it back onto the counter spot above the recycling. The pocket knife was folded and thrown into the backyard. The old man was ready for sleep.
Morning had well arrived, the board greeted a sore Franklin. Nevermind the scratches—he was 84; old enough to have had worse mishaps. No one’s defining moment was flawless, just impressive in one way or another. He must carry on. A glass of orange juice reinvigorated his desire to achieve. Though, he wouldn’t want to share credit.
He had tried to get the board a particular size for sake of personalization, that being said, no use restricting shape within defaults either—the preliminary tool was lost in the backyard—he could find a different tool, perhaps one more coarse. Taking a flat screwdriver and a stubby mallet along with the board, he entered the backyard. Part way down the brick-bordered concrete path, Franklin seated himself. The board was set on its back in the neighboring grass blades. Again, his knees weighed it down. Turning the board so the long sides were parallel him, he pricked along the frame with the screwdriver. The premiere mallet strike burst through the wood. Pulling out was difficult, his reading was off though; it wasn’t stuck in the punctured board so much as the grass—finally, the head retracted and in turn coughed up soil. Of course untrained, Franklin had no predetermined technique. Chipping away at the long sides, which had no holes to begin, left countless splinters. Splinters galore. He made efficient progress, especially when the blows were more calculated and less dirty. The frame wood behaved erratically; some separated neatly from the middle, while most refused—the largely smooth piece was inconsistently jagged. Accordingly, on one side at the center of width, a fat cluster distributed like a fork. Close by, announced a freakishly long sliver.
The other long side was given similar treatment (as similar as the splintering would allow). His proximity to the new side meant he got a broader view of the finished one; apparently, there was a lip in the middle itself. It extended an inch from the chipped edge to the surface, narrow indeed, yet both sides were harshly pronounced. What’s more, a leftward companion emerged, shorter and narrower only marginally. Franklin grinned. He had overcome categorizing such things as mistakes; they were marks of character. That a blank wooden board is unamusingly dull, cannot be contended. With both long sides freed, he had little work left. The screwdriver was slanted to contact the cut edges very minutely—best described as case of tiptoe. Using the mallet gently, he liberated the last two sides from the frame.
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“…Wishing to converse whenever fortunate,” the voicemail closed. Franklin had just come indoors carrying the carved middle piece and in his other hand—rather mauled—the frame, if for future use. He dropped his load off at the work station, then reviewed the message in full. Lash asked about the progress of the artwork. His offering of both an apology and words of encouragement left Franklin perplexed. Manners were effortlessly incorporated—so queer considering from whom they were given. He supposed it’d be good to respond.
Franklin wanted to do the call quick. Knowing Lash had a cell phone and that he was eager to talk, the call would begin as soon as the proper buttons were dialed. Not an empty second on the line: “Hello, Franklin! How do you do?!” With a cringe, the old man replied, “Just peachy. I appreciate your voicemail; it was quite thoughtful. I’ll get back to work now if you don’t-” “I cannot stress enough how ashamed I was for berating you so. Especially, since it occurred in a more public venue—all the people roped into our dispute—horrible!” Not that resurfacing the wounds helped, but maybe Lash meant well. “Agreed. And again, thanks for the well wishes. Good-” “Hopefully your schedule does not necessitate our immediate separation.” Had the call not been so pleasant, he would’ve disregarded the pleas for continuation. Already, he would’ve yelled at Lash to speak like a normal person, then left. Though, he knew chance couldn’t resist meeting them at a later date. For such reasons, he kept on call. “Oh, no! I glanced at the clock wrong—thought it was lunchtime—it’s not 12:50, I was an hour ahead.” “Wonderful! I cherish your company!” Ok, he had had it. “Stop this! What do you need?!” There was a long lived silence. Despite Franklin’s immense hatred for Lash, he became unsettled by his quiet. He hoped not a heart attack! Another explanation was that Lash moved from his phone, consensually. That’d be odd; the man, characteristically confrontational, had a knack for being blunt.
Lash wasn’t a pansy—the phone call hadn’t been delayed in order for him to cry (nor to lengthen story). “Come on, I know your skin is thicker than that. Answer.” “…Well, my very old Persian rug is ruined.” He was scared silly of the prospect of a lawsuit. To think, it had devolved into an accusatory call! “I need a replacement piece—my entry hall does not wear emptiness, proficiently. Might you be of assistance?” The old man burped in anxious violence. “Please hold,” said Franklin as he fetched a stomach pill from the kitchen. Upon his return, Lash had the courtesy not to question what had transpired on the other end. At least, no question was directly posed. “Alright. Do consider my request. You’d simply cultivate my humilities.”
“That would be great to see your nuts clipped!” “True, you would witness uncalibrated emotions. As it stands, I cannot afford the loss. In utter transparency, I remark my wealth has been hyperbolized by all tabloids reporting.” Initially, Franklin had been unsure his painting may have such an affect.—merely believing the rest of the world would admit awe—but now Lash was to kneel before him. Teetering over the pit of ancientness, Franklin sought that visual badge as a sole priority. “I will give you the painting. When done and delivered, you will forever be captivated. The greatest achievement of your snobbish life could only then be this phone call to me.” Lash seemed to lose footing on his pedestal, being without fast opposition. “Rest assured, my well wishes will waver none.” The call then extinguished.
The pie tin pallet became occupied by fresh purple and black paints. Of course, purple had caused him to implode just the day prior. However, rationale won out and he decided not to maintain a grudge against a manufactured liquid. Besides, a personal failing more so deserved this accountability. Luck scarcely works overtime to compile genius within tantrums. To achieve, he would need to befriend the ‘p twins’ (patience and perseverance). Taking a petite brush, Franklin withdrew a dime sized portion of purple from the puddle. With transported paint
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a safe distance away, he washed the brush in the retired licorice container, then enveloped its bristles with a paper towel to cancel residues. A touch of black counseled the isolated purple. The resulting model was magnified; the bulk of the unbottled paints were mingled proportionately. He swept through with an obese brush and administered the paint on his wooden canvas. The first layering was blatantly experimental. At various times, he’d think the brush would need to be moistened, but once reintroduced to the wood, the paint became too watered down. Paper towel dabs were commonplace. To cover the crevices, he recommissioned the petite brush—certain slivers were startlingly fine. Extending no further than brush flirtations, the wood kept well respected. The edges got similar consideration. His art saw importance in every feature.
The black paint had an overstepped influence. His background was so dark the purple seemed frivolous. Yet, Franklin wouldn’t concede the board as a lost attempt. He got sandpaper and a mask. He all too orderly removed the color and nudged its powder off his forthcoming masterpiece. Since he had done this with such strong patience, none of the delicate components were disturbed. After putting away his restoration tools, the old man took a pause. What did he want his painting to mean? Really, that was still up in the air. Ultimately, his gut told him it was best to find a subject that he valued.
Franklin would think it over in the shower. He came back to his workroom minutes later totally soaked and toweled. That fox was it! The porcelain figurine was a great choice for an impactful painting. Basically naked, he continued his work. When he had just rinsed the pie tin to start over the paint-pouring, the doorbell rang. He waited until minimal exposure and then retrieved the package before grabbing billing envelopes. Not fond of bills, he didn’t open them yet. However, due to the clutter and the potential to misplace them, he took them with him to the table. With a lighter tone of purple, he began on the freshly-sanded board. He expanded it in a very methodical way; building out evenly from the center. The bills teased him; he’d have to open them and take the financial poison now. Franklin opened the worst one first and then chickened out so as not to be overtaxed. He fled from the room not entirely due to the scary envelopes; he dried off properly and sought comfort in pajamas.
Upon his return, he recognized the promise that the envelopes had (aside from financial curb-stomping). Why they were metaphoric! Purple envelopes alluded to the bubble of privilege; disillusionment—an inability to relate to what was outside. Instead of filling out the negative space, Franklin modified the current purple area letting it take form as an envelope. He painted with varying tones to mimic the depth of a bloated sleeve. He left room for the fox figurine between the sleeve, so it could visually “peak out” from inside. Not exceptionally good at painting he smudged here and there, but had the general shape. He cried some. It was mediocre, he was pained by its imperfections. Franklin hopped from his stool and sat down on the floor unhappily slouching against a table leg. He cried some more. His chances to make notable contributions in any field seemed dead. Would he live the last breath of his life in miserable incompetence? When he died was Lash to be right about his lack of mention? Damn Lash and damn his own life. No, that was frankly the wrong headspace. He cared; he needed to be productive and make something of himself. His sensitivity was really capability.
Showing up at Lash’s residence, the old man was ready to impress his nemesis. A mail carrier was ahead of him on the elm boardwalk that led to the porch. Franklin got their attention with an uncanny smile and looked as though he’d kiss the woman. Naturally, she ran up to the mail slot and emptied her hands. He was just happy her people had cause for his artistic inspiration. He supposed she didn’t know this and just thought he was a creep. Even still she
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seemed extra on edge. Maybe he smelled. She retreated from the porch as Franklin awkwardly shuffled past the opposite direction. The door opened while the mailwoman galloped away. The lean and tall homeowner ushered in the energetic old man.
The two looked at the piece on his handcrafted coffee table. “It’s cracked. The paint has been mistreated completely. Kind of amateurish might I add. I’m sorry but is this actually your piece?” “Intentional or inadvertent, I got it how I want it.” The masterpiece was quite the sight: it had a spiky base, with a particularly stylized purple envelope, the fox was indeed made up of cracked paint, but that was only to accentuate its delicate nature, and the smudges had become fragments of porcelain. It spoke: something may appear one way until it is thrown to the wolves (or in this case whatever preys on foxes). The superficial was exposed. Lash hated it; he hated the wake up call. However, he believed it’d serve as a monument to Sprawl’s ineptness. “We’ll see, in due time, what the masses think of this clog of naiveté.” At this, Franklin chuckled.
Reluctantly, Lash took the painting and hung it upstairs where it settled among his new pieces.
On the way out, the homeowner sped up ahead to hastily retrieve an item from his closet. Lash moved a replacement rug to fill the vacancy just before the front door. He carried it vertically as if it was a shield. Franklin was surprised that he could afford the new rug. “Oh, you’ve got another.” Still, with the rug held up, Lash looked quite uneasy both at his own deceit and Franklin’s artistic commission. As Franklin, being so old, would’ve made his exit somewhat leisurely, Lash used the rug to push his back forward with considerable speed. Once outside, the old man stole a glimpse of him situating the Persian. Then, the door quickly shut.
For the next year’s home tour, Franklin adamantly volunteered as a guide. For some reason, he decided to fill the position for the residence of a Mr. Robert Lash. “This here is a painting done by the local artist Franklin Sprawl.” They looked at the piece with no less interest than the vaunted work from last year’s tour. He actually saw people drool. While the painting was being assessed, he stood with peacocked-posture ready to answer any and all questions. However, the group failed to produce a single one—it was just clear-cut praise. They flooded him and so he decided to let them go on especially as this was towards the end of the tour with plenty of time to spare. The compliments were enthusiastically loud. He heard a hard pound on the desk in the office beside them. He heard a pained mutter. The commotion was severely intrusive; it opened something up. Even behind the physical door, Lash couldn’t help from cracking.
