Sunset

There was a time I was an artist. But those days are long gone. My trembling, wrinkled hands are no longer stained with oil. My nails, yellowed and brittle, are uniform color and caked with gunk instead of my oil paints.

My smocks were donated. My studio is shuttered. My brushes, put down with every intention of picking them back up, gather dust. After the fall, I couldn’t pick up much of anything. Rotten luck, and bit of carelessness in a slippery tub. After that, I wasn’t allowed to live alone. They’ve got me cooped up in this ‘retirement community.’ Call it what it is, an old folk’s home. It’s stuffy in here; it stinks. I’m not that old; not like the rest of these geezers.

I seethe just thinking of it. There’s a half finished painting still in my studio. There were many half finished paintings over the years, but this one I hadn’t abandoned yet. I still had some brush strokes in my head, waiting to be translated into the real world.

There was a time my name was synonymous with painting. For fifty years I slathered oil on canvas for money. For thirty years before that, I did it for fun.

My favorite were landscapes. I lived in the country, and every night I’d be out on the lawn, gazing west as twilight fell. I’d stand on the hill while my children rolled down it, trying desperately to capture a fraction of the beauty of the sunset with my crude dyes. And although I made many beautiful paintings, nature beat me every time.

Yes sir, you could certainly call me a professional painter. I’ve created thousands of paintings and seen thousands more.

Which is why it’s so frustrating I don’t recognize this one. I’ve seen this man before, the man visiting me, the one who brought the painting. He’s an art dealer in town, a friend of mine. He’s asking me if I know the painting. I know many paintings; I’ve seen them in person, traveling for my exhibitions. Ever heard of the Louvre? One of my sunsets was displayed there, once. I read books about paintings, books about artists, books about technique and form, so yes, I know paintings.

Just not this one.

“You don’t recognize it?” the man asks. It’s a forest landscape, dark, almost night. Mountains cut into the sky like jagged teeth. A narrow river flows through the foreground, nimbly weaving between muted bushes, foam on its banks.

I shrug. “Oil on canvas. I’ve seen a lot of those in my life.”

“What else?” he asks.

I look closer. “It’s quite good,” I say, giving my former professional opinion and dodging the question. “Nice balance. Good detail in the stars, you can see the Ursa Major in there.”

“But you don’t recognize it?” he asks again insistently.

“No, damn it,” I bark. “It’s not the Mona Lisa.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he says.

I take a softer tone. Yelling at a friend does no good. “No, I’m sorry,” I reply. “I’m sick of this place. I want to leave.”

He grimaces, and I know what’s coming. “I know you do.”

But he doesn’t know why. Perhaps if I tell him. “The rooms are cold, the food is terrible, the beds are itchy and uncomfortable. The walls are thin as watercolor. I hate my next door neighbors. One snores like an hound and the other screams like a seagull. The staff always hide my glasses.” I grasp for them on top of my head, but they aren’t there. I’m about to accuse the staff again, but my hand finds them on my face. The man hides a grin, but doesn’t say anything. I think I pulled it off.

“I can tell you’ve got more complaints,” he says.

“Why bother, no one will listen.”

“I will.”

“No one will care.”

“True.”

He lets his grin out, now. I try not to look at him, but really I’m trying not to look at the painting. I feel like I should know it. It mocks me, sitting against his legs, like its staring at me, inflicting me with melancholy.

He reads my mind. “How does it make you feel?” the man asks.

I scratch my head, trying to buy some time. I makes me feel sad, though I’m not sure why. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m trying to remember the man’s name. Damn it, I mutter silently. He has lunch with me often, even on occasions he doesn’t bring a painting with him.

He’s looking at me like he expects an answer. I reach for my glass of water. Ethan? No, is it Tom? Thomas? “Sad, I suppose,” I say.

This caught his attention. “Sad? Why?”

I sigh, letting out an accidental fart. That’s getting old for you. He’s gracious enough not to comment. “I thought you wanted me to appraise the painting, not tell you how it makes me feel. Who knows why art makes people feel what it feels. Maybe you’re going for one thing, and it turns out completely different. The painting makes me sad. I don’t have to explain myself,” I huff. “How does it make you feel?”

“Proud,” says the man.

“Proud? Why?” I snap. Let’s see how he likes an interrogation.

“Because you painted it, Dad,” the man says.

“I did?” I say. I can’t remember.

He points at the corner, at a scribble on a rock. “That’s your signature. They displayed it in the Louvre. You were so proud,” he says.

It trickles back to me. Of course, this is one of mine. “I was,” I reply.

He stands and dons his coat. “I’ll leave this with you. They’ll hang it in your room, if you want.”

How could I sleep with that gloom watching me? Looking at the painting is like looking through a hole in my mind. “No. Take it with you. I don’t want to see it again.”

He wrinkles his nose and rewraps the painting, burying it in brown paper. “I need to get back to work. Megan will come by later.”

Megan. My daughter. “I remember.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, unconvincingly. “Love you, Pops.”

“Love you too,” I murmur, and he fades from my mind like a shadow.