What I Loved

by Siri Hustvedt

“I don’t know, but that’s his name. He’s a lonely guy, and I keep thinking that he should meet somebody, but when I get around to drawing him, he’s always by himself.” “He looks unhappy,” I said. “I feel sorry for him. His only friend is Durango.” He pointed at the cat. “And you know cats, Dad, they don’t really care.” “Well,” I said. “Maybe he’ll find a friend …” “You’d think I could just do it, because I made him up, but Uncle Bill says that it doesn’t work that way, that you have to feel what’s right, and sometimes what’s right in art is sad.” I looked into my son’s earnest face and then down at Dave. Matt had included veins in the old man’s hands. A coffee cup and a plate lay near his feet. It was still a child’s drawing. Matt’s perspective was shaky, his anatomy a little askew, but the lines that etched the body of that solitary man affected me strongly, and I began to look for Dave whenever Matt handed me one of his cityscapes.