William liked everything about painting at the easel. He liked the big, smooth sheets of newsprint that felt cool to his touch. He liked the wooden handle of the paintbrush that extended his reach. Even the springy clothespins that fastened the paper to the board, the ones that could “bite” his finger if he didn’t move it quickly enough, made William smile. The paintbrush bristles were cut off in a straight line, the better to move the paint around. And oh, the paints! Yellows as bright as lemons, greens and reds that vibrated¹ with intensity.
　　 Other children in William’s kindergarten class en－joyed painting, too. But William painted everyday that fall and sometimes more than once a day. At first I no－ticed simple lines and shapes he drew. He crisscrossed the page and seemed to experiment with how fat or thin to paint the lines. He concentrated on how many lines it took to cover a page. Some days he painted several pages orange.
　　 “William, that is a bright color. How does it make you feel?” (I was trained not to ask him what he was painting.) William smiled.
　　 “Count the paintings you did today,” I encouraged.“Four.” Together we rolled them up and put a band around them so they could be carried home.
　　 When William mixed greens and reds, the colors muddied, turned brown like the trees outside. Sometime during that fall, shapes emerged circles, rectangles². I recognized boxes, grass, flowers and cars. He painted quickly, like he was running out of time. It was as if he wanted to get something right by repeating it or see just how many pages he could paint in an afternoon.
　　 Once a month, I had to visit each child’s home, and I found that I couldn’t wait to see William’s grand－mother. Since William had done so many paintings, I knew that Sally must have them all taped up on the walls of the simple house where she and William lived. It was a mill house with only a few pieces of furniture. Now Sally could have original art on her walls.
　　 As I parked in front of the house and walked to the door, I wondered which paintings would be hanging. I stepped out of the winter chill into the slightly warm room and looked around. There were no paintings hanging up anywhere. The walls were as bare and dirty as ever. Then I saw them, the stack of fresh paintings that William just finished that day. There were curled in the fireplace, burning slowly. Only the corners of them did I see. William’s art had done something im－portant. It had started their fire. It was the much-needed spark to get the flames going and warm the room.
　　 In spite of my shock, I beamed at William and his grandmother. I understood. How could I expect to see paintings on the wall when warmth was what they needed? For the rest of that year, William got as many opportunities to paint at the easel as he wanted. Each day he took home bundles of his work and dis－carded newspapers as well. Art could still start a flame.
　　


　　威廉喜欢在画架上画画。他喜欢触摸新闻纸时滑溜凉爽的感觉。他也喜欢画笔那长长的、他几乎握不住的木质笔杆。就连那用来把画纸固定在画架上的、稍不留神就会“咬住”手指的夹子，也能让他露出微笑。画笔上的刷毛切得又整齐又匀称，画起来非常顺手。噢，至于那些颜料，更是五彩缤纷，美不胜收！有柠檬一样明亮的黄色，还有耀眼的绿色和红色。
　　 和威廉在同一个幼儿班里的其他孩子也都喜欢绘画。但是那年秋天，威廉每天都画，有时一天还不止画一次。起初，我注意的是他画的那些简单的线条和形状。他在纸上交叉着画，他似乎在尝试如何去画粗细不同的线条。他关心在一张纸上能够画出多少线条。有几天，他画了很多张桔黄色的线条。
　　 “威廉，那是一种明亮的颜色。你感觉怎么样？”（我注意不去问他画的是什么。）威廉微笑不语。
　　 “数数你今天画了多少张，”我鼓励说。“四张。”我们一起把画卷起来，用带子扎好，这样他就能把它们带回家了。
　　 当威廉把红绿两色颜料混合在一起时，颜色就变成棕色，像户外那些树。那年秋天的某一天，他画出了圆形和矩形。我认出了盒子、青草、花朵和汽车。他画得很快，就像在和时间赛跑。那情形看起来就像是他想通过反复地绘画去得到某样东西，或者是想知道到底在一个下午能够画出多少张画一样。
　　 我每个月必须到每个孩子家进行一次家访，我非常想见到威廉的奶奶，我盼望着到威廉家里去家访的日子快点到来。因为威廉画了那么多的画，我知道萨莉一定会把它们全都用胶带纸粘在她和威廉居住的那所简陋房子的墙壁上。那所小房子原本是一间磨坊，里面只有几件简单的家具。现在，萨莉终于可以有一种原始的艺术品来装饰墙面了。
　　 我在威廉家前面停好车，一边朝门口走去，一边在心里猜测着哪幅画会被贴在墙壁上。我从冬天的寒风中走进那间稍微暖和点的房间里，左顾右盼。房间里没有画，一张也没有。墙壁上空空如也，还是那么污迹斑斑。突然，我看见它们了，就是那天威廉刚刚画的那叠画。它们正躺在壁炉里，周边卷曲着，慢慢燃烧。我只能看见它们的几个角。威廉的艺术品正在完成某种更重要的使命。它被用来引火。它是点燃火焰和让房间温暖起来的必备之物。
　　 尽管感到非常震惊，我还是对威廉和他奶奶微笑着。因为我能够理解。如果他们连最起码的温暖都没有，我怎么能够期望看见那些画会挂在墙壁上呢？在那一年余下的日子里，威廉得到更多的机会在画架上画画。他每天都把他画的几捆画和那些被丢弃的报纸带回家。艺术仍然能够点燃火花。
　　江 汀摘译自 Teaching Stories