beauty is truth

So here's to a leap of faith and turning another year older. I wrote this story as a challenge to myself several years ago. I've shared it with only a few people--mostly former students who don't have the heart to be critical--knowing how sensitive their old teacher tends to be...

I remember sharing it with another friend who asked me what I planned to do with it....I didn't know how to answer, and aside from a few tweaks here and there, it's changed very little since then.

I share it now for a few reasons really. One is simply because life is so busy again right now that I find myself grading more papers than I'm writing. When I am writing, I'm writing about library science--which I love--but you wouldn't want to read about, ha! I'm also sharing this today because I am about to turn another year older, and because the purpose of this blog is to get over my insecurities. This story is the one short story I've written--actually written to share. I've decided to share it because I don't know what to do with it--other than give it breath....because honestly, I may never feel confident doing anything other than that.

My final reason for sharing is somewhat selfish--so humor me. We, my dears, are 20 views from 2000. We began only four months ago--and when we reached 1000, I asked myself, is 2000 by my birthday even possible? So in this leap of terrifying faith, I share with you something that makes me entirely excited and mostly vulnerable--all at the same time. My one mostly complete work of fiction--my short story.

Love to you all!

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

                                                                                                       ~KEATS

He sits alone in Dorset Park.  Every evening, he is there with his easel, striking streams of brilliant color across the canvas.  He faces nothing in particular, no one in particular, but paints uninterrupted, a magnificent landscape.  His face is tanned by the permanence of age, rutted with the scars of time.  Limbs dripping with spidery sprays of Spanish moss canopy the scene:  the man, the live oak seemingly ubiquitous, and the canvas, illuminated by the setting sun.

On the canvas, clouds exude luminous streams of warm splendor—a stark contrast to the creator’s chiseled and haggard countenance.  And yet, the painter and his work appear connected, pieces of one another.  His left hand extends into the page and flows freely.  His right lies in his lap, mangled, an arthritic heap.  The breeze, streams continuous through ancient branches, billowing his gleaming white hair.

To the other visitors, he is a familiar landmark, separate, yet attached to this space where he sits and paints daily.  His presence however, is an illusion; as a soul may transcend leaving the body, abandoned yet intact, he escapes from the world that encompasses him, into the realm which is his painting.  It is cool and tranquil, refreshing and rejuvenating, in contrast to the sultry southern breezes that caress the park each afternoon.

At dusk, a striking woman approaches.  She has passed behind him countless times, admiring his work from across his shoulder.  Statuesque, wrapped in a light yellow trench, she saunters toward the artist at an angle.  From the corner of his left eye he glimpses her form and turns to see the figure, lithe and divine.  The wind gently shakes the branches above—her image seems to ripple with light like the surface of a lake touched by movement.  He squints, wishing to see her more clearly, tracing her lines immediately with his trained eyes.  She is startled by his gaze but does not waver.   He is calmly curious, momentarily distracted. 

 “Eve…?” he inquires in a drawl resonant with grace and antiquity.  He turns back to his work, facing the canvas lake reflecting the intensity of the sun screaming through early morning clouds.  “I’m not ready,” he mutters.

“Eve?  No, I’m sorry….I’m just an admirer.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right.  I’m not ready to leave anyway.  That girl always wants to run off while there is still good light left.  Doesn’t make any sense to me how young people rush these days…”

A bit embarrassed by his forwardness, she nods in agreement.   “Yes, well.  I suppose life does move hastily doesn’t it?”  

“Well it shouldn’t!  I take my time—art takes time.  It takes time to find the truth.”  He turns his left cheek toward her ever so slightly, barely revealing his profile.  His eyes remain transfixed, distant.  It occurs to her that he desires to continue his rant but, out of courtesy, does not.

 “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to bother you.  Your picture is lovely.  I wish that I could walk right into it.”

Reluctantly, she backs away, her eyes fixed to the scene, artificial and inviting.  A wisp of hair gently falls across her brow coming to rest on her nose.  Only for a moment, as she lifts it away, her eyes leave their point of focus. Splendid, she thinks.  She pivots, leaving the artist to his craft but hesitates mid-step.  Teased by an invisible flurry, her coat folds elegantly round her slender frame.  Resolved, she approaches once again.

She solicits his help, wishing to commission a portrait of herself, a surprise for her lover.  She has admired his work and surely, he must be able to meet her request.  He humbly agrees, not wishing to disappoint a lady.

*****

She knows where she will find him.  He is in the same location, facing nothing and no one in particular, almost as if he never left, but this evening his canvas is blank.  She sits for him until dusk when the light wanes on the horizon.  Her skin, radiant as alabaster, is smooth beneath a simple linen sheath.  The mandarin collar, the delicate trim of crimson satin, lies slightly open against her décolleté.  Her hair, her complexion, flawless and fair.  Truly, she is the color of the light reflected in his landscape—heavenly light gleaming, incarnate.  His eyes embrace her and it seems as if each slight squint catches her more wholly. 

They depart into the darkness—under the veil of nature’s nightly symphony.  Although she returns to the park evening after evening, the old man does not.  And then, one evening, he is there, beneath the massive tree when she returns.  His easel holds the superb landscape he was working on countless days before. 

Her resentment is quieted by excitement.  When she approaches, he lifts a canvas neatly wrapped in butcher’s paper and twine.  Astonished, she forgets the frustration endured in the passage of time.  Thinking only of her lover’s reaction, she hurriedly stuffs a generous payment into his hand, hugs his neck, and scampers eagerly away with the package. 

*****

He finds her just below the surface, eyes closed and hair like tendrils gently swirling in the still water.  She appears frozen in peaceful beauty, undisturbed, and yet, like Ophelia herself, fragile and broken within.  Before losing consciousness, her lover observes her face rippling with light, like the surface of a lake touched by movement.  Mottled by the comforting swirls of bath water and warm wine, she found truth in the portrait propped against the sink. 

She arrived at his studio apartment bearing excitement and the exhaustion of carrying the large canvas.  She shed her stilettos and trench carelessly in the foyer and continued down the hallway.  She gently propped the package against the sink and drew steaming water into the bath.  The mirror faced her, reflecting an illusion of pristine beauty.  Had the image itself been frozen in time, it would have captured with precision all that he admired about her.  He would not arrive for at least another hour—and alas the reflection was fleeting.  She found a file and delicately cut the twine and paper to reveal the image of her, captured by that immortal thing that art is, for him. 

The canvas rests below the mirror that, even so recently, held a likeness that was not hers.  The figure is pallid, withered, and frail—hollow, and in violent contrast to the vibrant hues of the landscape that the artist paints for himself.

As she sank slowly beneath the comforting waters her eyes turned to the portrait one last time and then, closed.  A golden circle and empty wineglass rest on the marble ledge like remnants, without place. 

*****

He is handsome, in his mid-forties.  At the end of a short leash is his companion, a commanding Great Dane, brindle with massive hoof-like feet.  Although the canine barrels along at a quick gait, his friend stops suddenly, causing the dog a jolt at the end of the leash.  The master’s attention is diverted by the exquisite landscape being painted gently and ever so painstakingly by an older gentleman.  His friend trots to his side and sinks casually into a mountainous heap at his knees.  Unnoticed, he stares as the old man lifts his brush, to and from the canvas; his motions fluid and practiced—surprisingly swift and precise for a man who looks to be as ancient as the enormous live oak that now, backlit, throws shadows across his painting.

“Excuse me sir; I’ve been admiring your work.  The colors and the depth are brilliant.  You show the work of a trained hand.  Where did you study?  Well, that is really no matter, were you a scholar of this very park, your talent would not be less…I’ve wanted to commission a painting.  You see, my friend here, Beauregard, he is a champion, and I’d like to have a portrait…of us.  He is really all the family I have to speak of.  I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ramble,” he says, collecting himself for a moment, “do you paint for people?”

 The old man tilts his head with reservation.  Dropping his brush to rest against the palette on his lap, he admits the truth, knowing full well what the consequence will be.  “Well, I have… in the past…”

He is interrupted with enthusiasm.  “Oh, money is really no object; I value your talent.  It is incredible, really.  Name your price.” 

*****

The next evening, he returns.  The old man sits in the same spot, his blank canvas readied before him.   He squints at the massive creature and his master for nearly an hour before he begins stroking the canvas with a charcoal pencil.  He sketches until the darkness of evening mingles with the ebony lines of the image.  Peeking quickly as the old man gathers his materials, the younger man distinguishes two shapes, one larger than the other, sharing the same space.  Excitedly, he thanks the old man and promises to return the following evening.

 He does, but the old man is not there.  Only a patch of stunted grass marks where the man and his easel usually rest, locked in the landscape of the park.  Day after day, man and dog pass the lonely space.  He worries for the artist and longs for the portrait he so hopes to receive.  Weeks later, as if he were never absent, the old man sits on the newly established sod, brush in hand.  The young man chuckles to himself, thinking how it seems the elder has been simply painted back in to the picture.

As the younger man approaches, he sees that the artist’s left hand is bandaged in an improvised tourniquet.  “Oh sir, your hand.  Are you well?  Have you seen a doctor?  Is this what has kept you away?  I must say I have been worried about you and it is good to see you.  But would you like me to drive you into town to see a doctor?”

 “No, son, I’m fine.  I’m an old man. Don’t trouble yourself.  Just a bit of surgery to relax my hand, ‘ts amazing what a doctor can do these days.  I just might get to paint forever…”  The young man turns his head slightly, feeling Beau nudge his coat pocket.  He glances a large package tilted neatly against the grand oak. 

“That’s for you; I was able to finish.”

 “But we only spent one…” 

The young man, giddy with excitement, pats the artist’s shoulder and nearly leaps over his gentle companion to get to the package.  After excessive gratitude, the young man presents a generous check.  The older gentleman simply folds it into the breast pocket of his worn Oxford shirt.  With his hand, contorted by age, he gently pats the magnificent creature’s head and with a final thank you, the young man and his companion fade into the shadows of the live oak’s branches.

*****

The young man, wealthy from a substantial inheritance, is humbled by his painting.  The colors are true to life but the size of the images is grossly disproportionate.  Beauregard stands nearly two times the height of his master.  The dog is the dominate figure, the man, pathetic and weak.  Despite his love for his companion, his only living tie to his family, the man sees Beau’s image as a reflection of his own wealth and entitlement.  He feels small, outsized by the grandness of a life of privilege.  He has lived in the shadows of it all and now, he feels, this is reflected to him, through the kindness of a stranger, more clear than a mirror image.

*****

He awoke early and parted the heavy brocade drapes allowing the bursts of morning’s grandeur to fill the room.  Dawn broke in with awesome power and his heart filled with rejuvenating truth.  As he dressed, he thought of the artist, the old man, the stranger, and beamed with gratitude.  They had spent but hours together and yet, he captured all that the young man was.  No one had ever dared to be so forthright he thought.  “I must be sure to tell him….but first….”

The painting itself leaned precariously against an intricately carved banister.  He approached it with giddiness, bellowed a, “Ha!” and departed down the stairs.

*****

The evening is cool following a soaking rain, the humidity for the moment at bay.  Beauregard pauses to lap water pooled within the foot path.  The duo spend less time in the park now but still manage to return each evening to witness the sky’s transformation, seemingly ushered by the continual breeze. 

Their days are spent in many places, all less welcoming than the park.  They visit those for whom life has been less kind.  Beau welcomes the strokes of love he receives from those whom society has forgotten:  the sick, the elderly, the lost. 

The young man, no longer wealthy, is content for the first time.  The fortune, once his, was spread liberally across the plane of necessity.  The various charities and institutions would have praised him for his generosity but were kept silent by anonymity. They do not realize that the man who they have come to know, for his warm smile and gentle companion, is the same whose contribution alleviated so much.  He and Beau are familiar faces, offering comfort and reassurance to all they visit.

As they near the end of their walk, they climb the knoll in unison.  From days spent in close contact with the suffering, Beau has become more attentive.  His presence remains commanding because of his massive size, but he now chooses to walk at his master’s side rather than charging out ahead.  Atop the rise they pause to see the sun blazing through the crown of the familiar live oak.  The tree, beneath which the artist was for so long a fixture, has become their destination each evening.  Always hoping to find pleasant surprise, he knows now that too much time has passed.  The old man will never return to this scene. 

As they near the tree, he is startled to see the silhouette of a woman rising into the low lying branches.  Her arms extend upward as she claps a branch with both hands, gently swinging her feet just above the ground.  She is tall and thin and as he approaches, he realizes that in truth, she is also incredibly beautiful. 

Uncertain of how to proceed, he gathers the will to speak.  She is now standing on the ground but continues to lean her weight into her arms. 

“It is magnificent isn’t it?” he inquires, uncertain himself whether he is referring to the tree itself, the sunset, or her beauty.

“Oh, hmm, yes.  This is my favorite spot.  The breeze feels so wonderful through these branches.”  She releases her hold and gracefully stands to her full height.

He notices the burning light dancing on her hair.  She is fair and glowing and for a second, he forgets the significance of this place.  “Is he friendly?”

He is startled, but realizing that logically she must be referring to Beau, replies, “as a lamb.”  She reaches out to Beau and he happily trots to her side and nuzzles her outstretched hand. 

“For a long time I could not appreciate this place, and now, I become sad when I must leave.  Do you come here often?”

“We do, every evening.  Religiously, in a way I guess.  At first, we came because I hoped to see someone again.  Now so much time has passed that I think we just come out of habit.  There was an old man, he was an artist, amazing artist, and he used to sit just in this spot, beneath the tree and paint…”

“Yes, I know.  I was the one who brought him here.”

“Oh!  You know him!  Fantastic!  Is he your grandfather?  Tell me, how is he?  I’ve wanted to speak with him for so long now….

She smiles genuinely, sheepishly.  “He was my father; he was nearly fifty when I was born.  His art consumed much of his life, so much of his time really, but he was happy.  Painting was like breathing…”

“I’m terribly sorry.  I feared after so much time…your father, he saved my life…”

As the sun bursts into infinite specks, lightening bugs skipping past and stars dripping silver across the boundless sky, he relays his story of the old man, the painting, and his truth.   She giggles at the idea that her own father could impact someone’s life so wholly.  She assures him that although her father was gifted, he was no prophet.  The park was his refuge—the light soothed him. 

“I think you should visit the gallery sometime,” she offers, knowing that her invitation is as personal as it is prescriptive.  “You might come to understand your portrait even more…”

He eagerly agrees, too enchanted by her invitation to consider its deeper meaning.

*****

His eyes are drawn to a large painting which hangs, illuminated by its own brilliant hues, and by a brass overhead lamp.  A regal live oak-seemingly in its prime situated to the left.  Blasts of fiery light cascade through its branches and scream through clouds, remnants of a summer storm. 

Similar landscapes line the wall; each a virtual retreat from the immediate world.  Beneath each is a small brass plate which provides the title.  He returns to the familiar landscape and reads the inscription below, “From Memory:  Unfinished.”

Saddened, he backs away in wonder.  He finds his way into a smaller room off from the main gallery.  This room contains only a few pieces, all portraits.  One captures him immediately.  A young woman reclines on a velvet chaise.  Her hair drips like liquid gold across the cushioned back and she wears a coy smile.  He recognizes her.  The brass plate reads, “Eve,” the date, nearly twenty years ago.  There appears to be no symbolism, no hidden theme, it is simply and effectively the portrait of the artist’s daughter, lithe and divine.  “Flawless,” he reflects. 

Turning, his eyes fall casually onto another image, one that he is startled to encounter.  In contrast to the beauty he seconds before observed, here he witnesses unconcealed pain.  He is momentarily frightened and then, curiously, sets his eyes more completely.

 The physique is that of a young man, robust, imposing, dominant.  To his right on an easel rests a portrait on which the same man is painted.  In both images he is standing, his hands extend out before his bare chest.  He stands erect as if waiting to catch something falling from the sky, or bearing an invisible burden.  The face is chiseled—bones high and precise.  But then, in the dominant figure, there is an alarming contrast. The skin above the nose, below the brow, and inside each temple, extends into nothingness.  The eyes that pierce outward from the smaller canvas do not show—the man, whose body is Greek in structure and beauty, bears a face that cannot see itself.  There are no pupils, no irises, no white or black.  Only emptiness.  

His eyes fall downward, settling on the small brass plate.  He skims the surface several times before he comprehends the message, and then, he hugs tightly to that piece of his heart in which the artist’s memory resides.  He revels in the remarkable truth as he reads, “Self Portrait:  Final Study, Age Ninety Two.”

Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.