Love.

One of my first days in Source Chaudes, I noticed a painting on the gate to a home here. It was an abstract, green painting of a person – and I LOVED it. I loved it for the art itself, and would hang it in my home in an instant. And, I loved the idea of it – the idea of this bit of creativity, beauty, talent in the midst of the poverty and struggle here.

While looking at it one day, I noticed more art in the back of the little house. A painting on the front door to the house, another on the outhouse door. All incredible. I started greeting the woman behind the gate as I walked by, in hopes that one day I would work up the courage and the Creole ability to talk with her about it.

And I did. With slow (and broken) Creole, I tried to compliment her on the paintings one afternoon on our way home for lunch. And she lit up. She told us that the paintings were done by her son who was in high school in Gonaives (2 hours away – and yet, the closest place for students to go to secondary school). Her pride was evident and in her words, in her glow.

Since then, we’ve slowly started to become friends with the family. We communicate as much as we can in Creole. Eric has taught the other kids (two boys and one girl) a “secret” handshake and plays games with them. And every day when we walk by, they run up to the fence to say hello. It’s pretty great.

Last weekend, the mother stopped me to tell me that her older son was home from school and asked me to wait while she went to get him. She proudly introduced me to her son – Love, the artist. My best guess is that Love is 14 or 15. He is well-mannered, confident, kind – and has a pretty incredible name. He took us around the yard to show us the paintings he’d done. We asked him about his painting – about whether anyone had taught him to paint or how he knows what to do. He looked a little bewildered at our question. “No, no … no one had taught him to paint.” He told us that he could just see the images in his mind and that he knew how to paint them. He offered to make another one for us to see, and we told him that if he made it on something for us that we’d buy it from him. His eyes widened and he quickly agreed. If we understood correctly, he’s working on saving money to buy some new tennis shoes.

Love found us in town later that day to show us the three paintings he’d made for us – on the back of corn flakes boxes. They’re beautiful and I can’t wait to display them proudly in my home in the US – as a constant reminder. A reminder of the great tragedy there is in knowing there are people like Love who have great talent that will most likely never be recognized or cultivated. And a reminder of the great beauty in knowing that with or without training or payment or recognition, artists around the world are painting on whatever surfaces they can find.

[Photos: Some of the art at love's house, the paintings he made for me, Love].