Cafe Terrace at Night — Ekphrasis
I always came to the same place at the same time every night. Among the dark alleys and gloomy roads, one small café radiated warmth and light, inviting any passerbys to stop by. It was the place where the night came alive with liveliness. It was the time when the stars shone the brightest in the sky lighting the deep blue world in radiant starlight, almost like snow frozen in the sky on Christmas day.
I set my coffee down on the table scanning my surroundings; it was like any other night here in the café. I recognized many of the faces around me. Familiar faces, yet I had never really conversed with any of them. The night sky looked as alluring as the night was uneventful most of the time.
A figure approached my isolated table in the corner of the terrace. A new face. How rare those were these days. I glanced at the empty seat across the small table. He seemed to take that as an invitation as he nodded to me and sat down. I quietly observed my visitor out of the corner of my eye. He looked to be at the age where men could no longer be considered young, yet he was not quite middle aged. His fiery red hair stood out; especially here in France where it was quite uncommon. He had emerald green eyes that looked as if they would be sharp if it weren’t for the heavy bags that hung under his eyes. His scrawny form along with the unkempt beard he wore gave quite a bad first impression. And so, I was surprised when the newcomer pulled out a blank canvas and a pencil out of the leather pouch that hung off his shoulder.
Background noise faded out as the only sound in the air was of graphite scratching fabric. Rough yet deliberate lines traversed the page. Dark alleys stretched on. Silhouettes gathered around the tables and chairs all formed by his masterful skill. The look in his eyes had changed. His green eyes now glittered with a newfound passion. As the unknown man’s hand glided along the canvas, he seemed to become a whole different person. The man before me had left and was replaced by a professional, a performer. I observed silently as the scenery around me was translated into the space within the stranger’s hands.
When finished with the sketch he reached again into his pouch and brought out a palette that looked to have seen much use. Paints of all colours came next: yellows, blues, greens and oranges. Melancholy yet beautiful colours filled the black and white world. Thick layers of paint brushed on the canvas guided by the sketch. A landscape all too familiar. The liveliness of the café, the elegance of the night captured flawlessly with the man’s rough hands. Hands that were rough enough to be a carpenter yet moving with the delicacy of a surgeon. The scent of oil paint mingled with the smell of warm appetizing food and bitter coffee.
Before long, the masterpiece was complete. He packed his apparatus into his pouch. The painting rolled into a neat cylinder. He looked as if what he had just accomplished was just an everyday occurrence. He stood up to leave. I sat there speechless. In all my years I had not seen anything like that. I reached for my coffee, only now realising how cold it was. Most of the customers had left already and the lights lined along the street dimmed. Shops windows already pitch black. The café’s lights still remained on, however. The luminescent stars in the sky accentuated by the gloomy street reminded me again of the man and his painting.
16 September 1888
