The wind blew through the bamboo clumps. The bamboo trunks bent in the direction of the wind, making creaking sounds, the bamboo leaves trembled, the bamboo flowers swayed like a giant wind chime, making shrill sounds. A life of bamboo, a life of man. But that was not the case. When he grew up, bamboo had covered his garden and this village. Now that he had reached the limit, the bamboo was still lush and green. The bamboo clumps were like solid green walls: thorny bamboo, Chinese bamboo, strong bamboo... densely packed. From afar, one would think they looked the same because they were of the same species. In fact, they were like humans, the closer he got to them, the more he understood them, each tree had different characteristics from the color of the trunk and leaves. Chinese bamboo, also known as fat bamboo, was a bamboo tree with a green bamboo color, large leaves, strong bamboo had a white moldy green color at the base, the higher up the gray-green segments of the bamboo were covered with fine hairs that if you accidentally touched these hairs, they would stick to your hands and cause pain. Dark green bamboo is covered with sharp thorns. His childhood was associated with bamboo, he remembers the days of gathering bamboo firewood to bring home for his mother to cook rice, "bamboo firewood burns easily/ If you love, don't wait until it's too late to make bamboo shoots". He remembers the days of going into the bamboo bushes to pick bamboo for his grandmother to weave leaves to wrap banh u, "tell the person who weaves green bamboo leaves/ If you love, hide the cake for me...
The whole village lives on bamboo.
His profession also started from bamboo stalks.
*
- Who are you looking for?
The man in black looked at the painting on the blind, the patterns had been eroded by time. The guest slowly looked at it as if searching for something very familiar, not rushing to answer Hai Thong's question. Outside, the noon sun was blazing, the blinds were drawn to block the sunlight from entering the house.
- I want to find Hai Thong - artist.
- I am Hai Thong but I am not a painter.
- So who painted those pictures on the blinds?
- I paint. But I'm just a painter. Who are you? Why do you want someone to paint a blind?
- Don't you recognize me? It's been decades since you first met me when I was just starting to paint.
Hai Thong frowned - he didn't like the other guest's ambiguous way of speaking.
- You seem a little tired. I'll come by and talk more some other day.
Hai Thong turned back to get a bamboo stick to see the guest out to the yard. When he returned, the man in black was no longer there. Hai Thong wondered who the guest was who had known him for so long. He had a feeling that he had met that person somewhere... Drowsiness came and Hai Thong gradually fell asleep.
*
- Thong is too weak to split bamboo - Uncle Hai, the owner of the blind workshop, looked at Thong from head to toe and said. Let him paint blinds and bamboo blinds too.
So Hai Thong started to pick up the brush. Now thinking back, he sees that the profession chose him randomly and has stuck with him all his life. He first came to painting to earn a living. His family was too poor, with too many siblings to continue studying. He voluntarily stopped studying to find a job. He remembers clearly that his first strokes were to touch up the faded colors of the painting that the main painter had left behind. Sometimes they were streaks of white clouds on the vast blue space, a bird in the afternoon far away on the horizon, a bit of yellow dyed on the ripe rice fields.
- Uncle Hai! - The voice of the painter Ba echoed from the house above. Thong stopped painting and listened.
- Today is the end of the month, tomorrow I will go to Mr. Ba's facility at the end of the village. Besides the salary he pays me, his facility is not allowed to copy my paintings anymore. I have an agreement with Mr. Ba.
Thong listened to Uncle Hai's pleading but Sister Ba had already decided to end the relationship.
- Where is Thong? Can you look at the drawing?
Thong sat in front of the bamboo blind. Yesterday, drawing was as easy as breathing. His hand waved up to the vast blue sky, dotted with a few white strokes as the storks flew. He waved his hand down to the golden rice fields, heavy with grain, and here and there, village girls in traditional Vietnamese clothes were harvesting rice. Yesterday, drawing was easy because he repeated old pictures. Today, it had to be his own product. Thong did not blame Ba because the bamboo blind paintings were her idea.
Thong frowned in thought. The brush in his hand waved on the flute. A field after the harvest appeared, a few red-crowned cranes were flying in the sky, a few were swooping down to peck at small fish. It was as vivid and real as the times Thong and his sister hid in the fields to watch the red-crowned cranes migrating from far away when it was the cold season. Unlike the sparrows that always clung to the porch, unable to go far. The red-crowned cranes were wandering birds. Thong remembered the days of waiting and waiting, the cranes became more and more absent. Waiting and waiting, the birds became more and more obscure, until the afternoon fell, the pink clouds on the horizon like the rosy cheeks of a young girl, until the night curtain fell, and he had to leave dejectedly. There were days wandering in the fields with only stubble left, there were places where the fields had been burned, leaving only black ash scattered, waiting to be plowed for the new rice season. Thong called that the time when the fields rested after a rice season like a buffalo plowing, and at noon, they could lie comfortably in the puddles. That afternoon, when Thong was tired after so many days of waiting, the cranes flew back. From afar, the cranes' wings spread wide, covering a corner of the sky, the migratory cranes always followed the group. The cranes had elegant features, long slender necks, and graceful heads dyed red. The red color was a distinctive sign of the species. Without that red color, the cranes would be like the skinny storks that hovered around the fields all year round. Thong was silent before the beautiful natural scenery as if Thong had used his memory to take a picture of that frame. That memory fell into oblivion. Right now, the memory was filled and overflowed onto the palm.
The original paintings of Thong blinds were not popular because customers were used to the old paintings. They had already assumed that the paintings on the blinds must be of rice fields in harvest season, blue sky, white clouds...
Thong continued to draw a sampan into a small canal, the Indian laurel trees were strewn with red firecrackers, the flowers on the river were scattered like floating firecrackers... Thong drew the riverbanks on both sides of the gardenias celebrating the May flower festival. The ivory white flowers with six petals were dreamily waiting for the fruiting season... the river was flowing endlessly. While drawing, Thong was daydreaming as if he was rowing a sampan on a river filled with the scent of blooming flowers.
*
Hai Thong entered the house, fumbling around looking for something. His hands were shaking as he opened the drawer, the brush was still there...
- What are you looking for a brush for? Your hands are shaking!
- Dad draws bamboo flowers.
- Bamboo flowers, dad? - The boy looked in the direction his father pointed. The bamboo flowers had yellow and green tassels hanging down like loose braids. The flowers had faded, revealing round green pearl-like fruits.
His hand was shaking. The brush fell to the dirty ground.
He let out a sigh.
I have to accept it. A life of bamboo, many shoots, many seasons of rustling leaves, many bamboo stalks that make up utensils and decorations for life. The bamboo flowers out there only bloom once in their life. When the bamboo flowers hang down like bamboo curtains, the flowers are as dense as the fishing line on the hat of a opera artist, that is the message of the end of a life of bamboo. When the flowers fade, the bamboo also gradually withers. He feels afraid. Afraid of what. Death? No. Everyone will eventually reach the eternal shore.
*
The craft village has only ten workers left.
Disintegrated like an afternoon market, a whole craft village was destroyed...
Now, plastic blinds are in trend, customers love them because they are made from light and durable materials. Because they are mass industrial products, they are similar to each other, there is no difference, there is no soul of each bamboo blind... The bamboo blinds of each establishment carry the characteristics of the place of production. The craftsmen of the craft village have put all their heart into each blind. The slats are all stretched out as if they were tested. Each slat goes through the hands of skilled craftsmen to not be too thick or heavy, the blind will be rough and stiff, not too fragile, which will lose its main function of shading from the sun and rain. The blinds are also the place to carry the artistic paintings drawn with the brush strokes of professional painters, so they more or less contain the thoughts of the painter.
*
Uncle Nam announced that the workshop was closing, his face acting as if there was nothing sad. Hai Thong knew that he had actually gone through a lot of consideration before deciding to stop making bamboo blinds. This profession had been with the village for many generations. Surely the ancestors of the profession never imagined that one day the profession would come to an end. Uncle looked at Hai Thong, his dry eyes hardened.
- I'm old. I can't hold on any longer, my child. Stop at the right time to cherish your profession. If you keep doing it regardless, you might think that you're suffering because of your profession. Every profession eventually declines, my child. You're still young and have a talent for drawing. I think that if you don't paint on bamboo blinds, there are still many other places where you can show your ability.
Hai Thong felt like he had no legs, not knowing where to lean.
The blinds were still in stock, Thong told Uncle Nam not to pay him a monthly salary but to let him take them home.
*
- Blinds here! Blinds here!
Thong carried the bamboo blinds on his bicycle, going deep into the small, bumpy alleys, the narrow roads where only bicycles could go deep inside. Thong carried with him a hope that there would still be people supporting bamboo blinds. But day by day, Thong found that his hope was groundless, like a person looking at the full moon on New Year's Eve. Wherever he went, he was surprised to see that plastic blinds had penetrated into the narrowest alleys.
*
The sun was shining. Hai Thong's son lowered the blind. A picture of a red-crowned crane in the afternoon field appeared. After many days of not being able to sell the blind, Hai Thong took it home to hang. Hai Thong remembered his wife nagging him for not receiving her salary but taking the blind home when the family had many things to manage.
- Please don't call me an artist!
Hai Thong answered the man wearing a conical hat standing outside the door. Who is that? Who still wears a traditional Vietnamese dress and a conical hat like that nowadays?
- Who are you? How do you know me? I am not a painter. I make a living by painting, painting gives me food, clothes, and education for my children. I am just a painter. Deep down in my heart, I only wish to have a job so that I can live honestly. I have no desire to be a painter because I know for sure that no one can become a painter by painting on bamboo flutes.
The man's voice was deep:
- I saw your painting of a flock of cranes migrating to the South on a warm sunny afternoon. I once went to the temple to see the vivid painting of the Three Saints signing the peace treaty, the paintings of the twenty-four filial piety...
I like the soul of the painting...
*
Hai Thong swung the brush, his hands shaking, the brush shaking violently.
What are you trying to do? Your career is over. Like the bamboo flower fluttering out there. A strange flower but surely no one is expecting it because behind that strange beauty is fading. Not just the flower fading. Every flower that blooms will eventually fade. But when the bamboo flower blooms, the entire bamboo grove will wither... A death sentence foretold.
*
- My child!
- Yes, what do you need, dad?
- Draw a picture of bamboo flowers!
The boy hesitated. He thought he would only paint when he felt the urge. Emotions were not found anywhere in this village. When Vu grew up, bamboo and rattan no longer covered the village like when he was a child. Vu was afraid of bamboo and rattan. Vu remembered the days when he would only see bamboo shoots in his rice bowl in the morning, noon and evening. After bamboo shoots, there were bamboo shoots. Stir-fried bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots in soup, pickled bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots stewed in coconut milk. That was when his father was unemployed... Not only Vu's family, but the whole village was in trouble at that time.
- Dad! I will draw. But not now. I need time...
*
- Mr. artist!
Hai Thong heard a familiar voice. It was the man from the other day.
- What do you need? I told you I'm not an artist - Hai Thong's voice was a bit harsh.
- You are too modest...
- I'm just a painter, then a copyist... I've never painted anything for myself, sir. From the urgent things in life, I've drawn my brushstrokes.
Vu ran up and asked in confusion: - Who were you talking to?
Hai Thong's eyes were dull and he was looking at the bamboo flower as if searching for someone.
*
Hai Thong longed to paint a bamboo flower painting. For the first time, he wanted to paint a painting for himself, not because of the pressure of making a living, but to satisfy his desire. He kept thinking that if viewed from a dark angle, the bamboo flower might be a symbol of decay, but if viewed from a bright angle, the flower might be a symbol of dedication, of expressing oneself only once in a lifetime.
- Vu! Buy me some paint and paper.
- My hands are shaking so much that I can't draw.
- You buy it.
*
Hai Thong sat there thinking, old people sometimes remember and sometimes forget. He wondered why his son hesitated to paint bamboo flowers. He thought about it a lot. Oh, he was crazy. The boy studied at an art school, after graduating he painted everywhere, he only painted what he felt. Unlike him, he painted what people asked him to, although he tried his best and most creatively. He wondered if he were as young as Vu now, would he dare to pursue painting like that, or would he have been caught up in the hustle and bustle of making a living?
He remembered that after the village was dissolved, he went out to town to hang billboards and paint signs. In fact, he could do many other things to make a living, but he wanted to paint and he would be even happier if painting could support him and his family.
*
The son took Hai Thong around the temple.
- Go slowly, son - Hai Thong patted his son's shoulder.
- What's wrong, Dad? - Vu asked again.
- See? The pictures on the wall. Dad worked on them for months.
The son was absent-minded. Old people often feel lonely and want to confide in each other. But perhaps it was like when he was young, he always felt that old people were old. The son was following a different school, his drawings were strange, not like his real style. Although the two of them were both artists, they had different paths, two different generations, two opposite angles, although they had the same point in common, they looked in two different directions.
- Stop! - The son braked suddenly.
- What's up dad?
- I want to visit the temple.
Hai Thong hurried in as if he was excited to meet an old friend. Vu ran after his father.
The footsteps rushed on the stone steps. Hai Thong seemed to want to touch the mural: The Three Saints Signing the Peace Treaty. In that mural, Nguyen Binh Khiem appeared respectfully holding a pen and touching an inkstone to write on a banner with the four words “Thien ha thai binh”, Victor Hugo holding a goose feather and Sun Yat-sen holding an inkstone, acting as the mediator. Three outstanding people from three different eras came from lands with different cultures but had one thing in common: the desire for a peaceful world . Along the path, on the balcony, there were paintings of the twenty-four filial piety, Meng Zong crying for bamboo shoots, Luc Tich hiding tangerines to offer to his mother, letting mosquitoes suck his blood… these were stories about the filial piety of children towards their parents.
*
Here is the blind workshop. He hasn't been here since he got sick. The house where he painted blinds is in ruins. Maybe this is his last visit, and I don't know when he'll be back...
When he lit incense on the family altar, he was suddenly surprised...
*
The man in the black silk shirt he remembered was very familiar, but even though he tried to search his subconscious, he looked exactly like the founder of the profession of painting bamboo blinds, also in black silk shirt. Could it be that the founder of the profession also loved and respected him for his creativity and dedication to the profession and called him a painter? Or was it that he himself, after decades of working in the profession, still wondered and did not believe in himself that the paintings he painted were all for his talent and passion for creation...
*
The bamboo has withered. The constant rains cannot make the bamboo green again. It must be accepted. He leaned on his stick and went out to the bamboo bank. A few green shoots were growing under the withered bamboo. He sat down. He happily shouted like a child: baby bamboo. The bamboo seeds that fell in the rain had sprouted. The old bamboo fell down and a new generation of bamboo grew up. He stopped painting and his son continued his father's painting, although in a different style.
The man in black came again. This time he stood far away. He heard a faint voice in the wind and rustling bamboo: “Goodbye, painter. I’m going now. See you again!”
TQT
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