I told you before about the old painter, the one who
hides his works of art in a closet, never to be seen. But that does not stop him from painting,
because that is what he does. And as I
also told you, when he dies, the house will burn down and all the paintings
with it, and it will be as if the paintings had never been. That is why I tell you about him and about
them, so you will know and you will remember when he is gone.
He brings his canvas and paints and a stool with him on
this early morning, slung over his back in an old familiar pack, the weight of
which is chronic and causes pain but is sorely missed when not there. It is our burdens we remember most fondly, I think. The fleeting joys are just that—fleeting. But the burdens, oh how we endure them. A life well lived is filled with pain, this I
believe.
Where shall he place his stool? He cannot decide. Now here and now there. But he is tired and sits down to rest. Perhaps the inspiration will come to him,
like an angel settling on his conscience, reminding him of his duties,
whispering of responsibility. He runs
his old calloused hand across the canvas.
Then again. And yet again. His old eyes do not see much of it anymore,
but the feel is always the same. The linen
begs for touch, for hue.
I watch him secretly.
Sometimes it begins with a sketch, flowers and trees on a wispy
landscape. Or bold mountains and a
crashing sea. Or a woman’s face,
saddened and looking down at her dirty hands.
Then the palette comes out and the colors are mixed, but not all of them
are used. The linen cries in pain if he
should place the wrong color. I can see
the happy colors in a corner of the palette, but he does not reach for them yet. He finds the darkened hues instead, the
colors so like those I hide within my own soul.
How does he know?
It is a dusky red against a tired green, the kind of
green that Summer gives when she cannot give anymore and longs to place her
seeds within a cool earthly grave, no casket to adorn them, just hardened spiky
pods of hidden life buried in a cold and bony embrace. But she longs for it because the giving has
become too much. And somehow the
painter, he also knows this giving of too much.
He knows the sorrow that abundance will bring, has no choice but to
bring. The jagged lines on his face
deepen in recognition of what is to come.
Then unexpectedly, he quickly reaches down and pulls up a
thorny hawthorn branch, raking it through his fingers. I wince with the pain I know he must feel
from the thorns, but the lines relax on his face. He reaches out and a few drops of blood fall
upon the holy linen. He has gone too
far, I think to myself. He cannot put
his own blood on the linen! Does he
know? Does he realize what he has
done? Or has age finally taken his mind? The lines in his wizened face deepen again in
pain, yet the blue of his eyes against the red of his hands is striking. Who am I to judge?
Then the master’s hand begins again. Brilliant flowers dance upon a perfect linen
landscape. A perfect sky with perfect
clouds. And a couple in the distance,
holding hands and walking through a field of ripening grain, the darker edges
of the forest in the background not yet whispering of the pain of the years to
come. The tired green and brilliant blood
berries in the foreground are unknown to the youths who walk happily in the
field. And how could they know?
It is done. He sets
it aside haphazardly, as if he is pushing away an empty plate from a meal
enjoyed long ago. Then he reaches into
his pack and pulls out a weathered old sketch and places it on the easel. It is the sketch of the woman who looks down
at her dirty hands. I recognize it. The master does not paint her. He removes a scant meal from his pack, a bit
of bread and dried apple and a flask. And
he sits in silence and eats, staring at the woman who stares at her hands. He tips his flask to her and then drinks.
The day has worn on and the shadows are growing
quickly. I have been here too long. I should not have followed him. I should not have looked at the blood
berries. I should not have noticed her
dirty hands. But hindsight alone is
perfect. There are always so many things
we should not have done.
I turn to leave, freeing my skirt from a thorny
bush. He looks quickly in my
direction. Surely, he cannot see
me? Those old eyes can focus only on the
past now. Still he looks. I back up slowly and disappear within the
tree line. I head for home, for the
safety of four walls where there are no berries to be seen.
And the master, he packs up as well and begins the
journey back to his own home. He grabs
the perfect landscape painting almost as an afterthought, swinging it uselessly
from his lined hand. Another perfect day
to place in the old closet. My, how the
days add up. All of them so perfect.
