What the Painter Told Her

Holding the book, she closed the door to her room and sprawled over the covers with her feet on the pillows. Most of the neighbourhood was asleep under faint stars. The stillness was calming.

Each page held one of his paintings in chronological order with a slight description. Having always been intrigued by impressionists, she gazed intently at each brush stroke as she slowly turned the pages. Only a few pages before bed. Someone had suggested reading to help fall asleep.

The first few paintings captured a variety of scenes: a desk, a boat and a slab of meat. He experimented with techniques and colours. One page had a caricature. She didn’t read many of the descriptions, but paid great attention to each composition.

The paintings now held more people in the landscapes and she recognized a face, not from her life but from an earlier painting. Turning back a few pages, she saw the same features in another scene and confirmed the name. Looks like somebody has a crush.

Continuing on, she saw the same lady in almost every painting. In one painting she posed as four different women. She likes him too. Why else would she pose for so many oil paintings? In some paintings she was the main subject with sharp details. In others, he painted her as part of the landscape, no more focused on her faint features than the nature surrounding her.

A few paintings passed without the gentle face. Oh, no. The next description shared that the painter’s poverty forced him to move back in with his parents in a different city. He painted water scenes from his parents’ balcony and surrounding areas. He must be near the coast. Other paintings were snowing with storms and bleak palettes. The strong strokes capturing the wind looked fierce.

A few paintings later, the kind, friendly face looked back at her again through the page. This time, under a different name, his last name. The joy tingled up her spine as she rolled away from the book, onto her back and put her arms in the air. Yay! She could feel the wide goofy grin across her face. Five years had passed since the first painting she was credited in.

Many paintings passed of his new wife and breathtaking outdoor scenes. She turned the page to see an infant painted lovingly, the painter’s first son, sleeping soundly with his dolls and toys.

Fields bustling with poppies and picnics stacked with food followed. The skies were vast and the scenes engrossing.

Dark, sorrowful colours consumed the page. He painted light brushing against the pillow next to her face but the surrounding shades faded into her skin to the point where she was unrecognizable. She knew before reading the description. She was dying. No… she’s too young. She turned back a few pages to confirm her thoughts. They weren’t even married a decade. Poor guy. She could see past the painting, him sitting beside her bed for hours as quiet brushstrokes preserved one last memory. 150 years separated the girl from the tears and goodbyes but the pain was fresh.

The paintings that year were dark and gray. Instead of his vibrant flowers and lush fields, he painted dull leafless trees and lifeless snow, often melting or drifty, broken and sparse. There was a lot of water, vast endless water.

The colour faded back and he starts painting people again. Almost ten years after the deathbed painting, he reintroduced spirited colours and hopeful scenes. He played with light and movement in captivating scenes. She smiled again. So much for only a few pages.

There is more water, but with ripples of life. Flowers and lilies replaced the dull chunks of ice. The water is rich with colour and depth. Most scenes appear to be from the same area. He must really like that pond.

The details break down and the brushstrokes swiggle, blurring the details. The change seems odd and she reads a few of the descriptions. Cataracts. That makes sense. He is still trying new techniques and subjects. Good for him.

The last painting of the book looks unfinished. Something about that is reassuring. There are no vibrant colours or detailed scenes but the painting is calming with soft colours and strokes.

She closes the book with a heavy mind and satisfied heart. There is still no sound in the house or street but everything feels different.

As she closes her eyes late into the night or perhaps early into the morning, she sees the paintings dance on her eyelids. She listens to every detail the painter tells her. Each scene flashes across her mind.

the way he smiled looking past the canvas
and winked at his new bride
the way he painted next to her bed
and heard soft breaths as she died

They, if only for a moment, are alive again. In that moment, she feels closer to this man she will never meet than all those faces she passes in the light.