The Solfam Art Gallery

The Solfam Gallery is intangible. As are the woods that surround it.

The gallery consists of three portraits. Nothing more, nothing less. Each hangs by a rope from the boughs of a tree, facing one another. A gentle breeze would cause them to sway, to twist and to turn. But there is no breeze. There is no movement, no sound. No birds chirping in the branches, no fauna picking their way through the growth. A subliminal space for an artist to work.

The Painter walks through the woods. They carry a frame in one hand, a rope in the other. Their footsteps make no noise, no imprint on the earth. Some would question if they are even there at all.

They stand in the centre between the three portraits. Seem to consider, the angles, the positions. They choose a naked tree, and tie the portrait to it. It sways, the one and only time it will. A blank canvas. With one last look, the Painter nods in satisfaction and departs.

Time passes, but not in the traditional sense. Days exist, but no sun passes from east to west, no moon follows its sister. Instead, there is light and then there is dark. Then the moonlight appears. It creeps towards the portraits, guides its glow along the earthy ground, up the tree’s bark, and on to the gilded frames.

Palaios is the first to wake. Palaios Fengari: born 494 BCE – died 482 BCE. Cause of death: phthisis. Her portrait has hung in the Solfam Gallery for 140 years. It depicts a girl, blonde of hair, walking through a field of barley. She holds a blackened poppy in her cupped hand, as though offering it to her painter.

She sees the blank canvas. Waits, silently, for the others.

Manteia is the next to wake. Manteia Fengari: born 494 BCE – died 430 BCE. Cause of death: the plague. Her portrait has hung in the Solfam Gallery for 88 years. It depicts an aging woman, blonde of hair, knelt on the floor of a temple, arms raised above her head. Each hand holds a blackened poppy, as though praying to the heavens.

“Do you see it?” Palaios asks.

“I see it,” replies Manteia. And they wait, in silence, for the other.

Ergasia is the final one to wake. Ergasia Fengari: born 471 BCE – died 420 BCE. Cause of death: natural causes. His portrait has hung in the Solfam Gallery for 82 years. It depicts a middle-aged man, blonde of hair, in the process of swinging an axe to fell a tree. The tree has a blackened poppy seared into it, as though branded as a sign of devotion.

“Do you see it?” Palaios asks again.

“Aye, I see it,” Ergasia answers. And they wait in silence.

Each has control of their head, their face, their voice. But not their body. It is part of the Painter’s magic.

“Who do you think it is?” Manteia asks after a while, the three contemplating the blank canvas.

“Could be Pater,” Ergasia says.

Manteia shakes her head. “Too stubborn.”

“What about Keramikos?” Palaios suggests.

Ergasia’s turn to shake his head. “Nay, he died before me.”

“Oh yes, I forget.” A pause. “I still wonder why he never appeared.”

More silence. More contemplation. Painted swirls of yellow and pink doing their best to mimic a mind.

“He’ll come back,” Manteia says. She looks at Ergasia. “He did for you.”

The moonlight does not stop, it does not dwell. It leaves Palaios first, her features settling back into childlike innocence. Then Manteia, eyes returning to the floor beneath her feet. Finally, Ergasia. Never fulfilled in his felling.

Time passes again. The Painter returns.

He carries a paintbrush this time. No paint. There is no hesitation in his movement; his work commences and he puts brush to canvas. The paint, the colour is willed into being. The magic of the Painter. A steady hand, working to his own time, his own rhythm. The frame does not so much as stir beneath his gentle touch.

He does not finish the painting. It is not time. Not yet. He leaves before the moon’s glow returns. Not once has he been caught in the moonlight’s glow himself. As though afraid of it.

Palaios wakes again. Her painted eyes take in the portrait and there is a small intake of breath. But, in silence, she waits for the others.

Manteia next. She doesn’t get chance to even look, before her Palaios speaks. “A hoplite.”

Now she looks. Takes in the portrait, more studious than her sister. “It’s not armour I recognise.” She cocks her head. “He always paints the bottom half first. Leaves us to guess.”

Ergasia awakes.

“One of yours, Ergasia?” Manteia asks.

He looks at it for a moment, the unfinished portrait. Then he shakes his head. No words. A quiet contemplator.

No more words are spoken before they go to sleep again. There are none to be said.

The Painter returns again. The same paintbrush, the same steady hand. He comes so close to completing the portrait. So close, and yet the time is still not right. Final touches are needed in the days to follow.

When Palaios awakes, she scrutinises the portrait for long seconds. It reveals nothing to her.

When Manteia awakes, she also examines the portrait, takes in the features, the stance, the colours. The differences. Her sister’s comments go ignored.

When Ergasia awakes, he does nothing more than glance at the portrait. His mother will share her insights, when she’s ready.

“Who is it?” Palaios asks, for the third or fourth time.

It goes ignored again. Instead, Manteia says, “no poppy.”

“What does that matter?” Palaios asks.

“It’s why we’re here,” Ergasia says.

Palaios looks at the other portraits. At her sister’s, with its blackened poppies in each hand. At her nephew’s, with the same poppy emblazoned on the tree. At the poppy in her own hands. Proffered. A gift to the Painter.

They all go to sleep again, whilst she ponders this.

It is a brief visit from the Painter this time. A final touch needed. It is his time. Time he joined the family.

Palaios wakes first, as always. She nods in knowledge and understanding.

Manteia comes next.

“Do you see it?” Palaios asks.

“I see it,” replies Manteia.

Then Ergasia. Palaios does not repeat her question. She knows he sees it. How can he not?

The moonlight seems to take an age. It teases the edges of the portrait, leaves the Fengari family in suspense.

Finally, it hits. Apognos awakes. Apognos Fengari: born 359 BCE – died 338 BCE. Cause of death: war. His portrait has hung in the Solfam Gallery for 0 years. It depicts a young man, little more than a boy, blonde of hair. His stance is a warrior’s stance: shield held above his head, spear thrusted forwards. The shield has a blackened poppy emblazoned on it, as though a sign of his heritage.

He looks around as best he can from his position. There is confusion painted there, certainly, but not fear. He has already faced greater fears.

“Welcome,” Ergasia says. “Your name?”

“Apognos.” He looks between the three other portraits, at his ancestors. “Who are you?”

“Family,” Palaios says. And she smiles, with a warmth that somehow reaches Apognos and his canvas.

“You were buried with a poppy, weren’t you?” Manteia says. It is more a statement, than a question. He nods, and she, too, smiles.

“Then you are where you belong. Welcome to our mausoleum, descendant.”

There are questions he has. But they can wait. Time is not a factor here. Beyond life, beyond death.

Apognos smiles, knowing that this is where he belongs.