More Than Imitation

May 15, 1845

Perfect proportions, down to the last hair.

Paul makes a broad stroke with his brush, hardly looking at the canvas.

Even the ruffles on the shirt, the half-eaten apple on the table. It was all there. Perfect. A still capture.

Another stroke and the body takes form. The couch rustles as his subject shifts slightly. Paul grimaces.

“Please try your best to remain still,” he mutters, a faux sweetness in his voice.

And it was done with no effort!

He leans across the canvas to get a better look at his subject, trying to push the still-picture he had seen that morning out of his mind. 

Across the hall lays a young duchess. She could be no more than eighteen—her auburn hair dangling gently over the silk cushions she’s strewn across. What a frustratingly bland pose.

Is art dead?

Paul notices a questioning stare and smiles briefly before hiding behind the canvas once more. “Just figuring out your proportions, dear.”

Dear. What am I saying? And to a duchess. 

But his mind is elsewhere, still haunted by the black-and-white print of the man half-way through supper. The photograph had been on display at the Museum of Art, defiantly sandwiched between a da Vinci and Michelangelo—exposing their flaws to the world. 

Paul sighs, shaking his head. The painting in front of him is all wrong. The arm is too long, the hair too dark. He’d rushed through the outline, and now would suffer the consequences. 

The girl’s drab eyes stare back at him through drying paint. At least there’s a likeness, he scoffs. 

Paul sets down his brush. 

Good enough.

The young woman rushes to his side, voicing her joy. Her wide-eyes and bright smile only deepen the wound. 

“It’s so wonderful!”

“With such a lovely model, it’s hard to go wrong.” Rote repetition. 

Paul’s attention is elsewhere, envisioning the laying duchess on the wall in the museum. Black and white perfection capturing every second around her, as though snatched from time itself. 

He’s alone now. Paint staining his hands, joints sore from precise strain. 

One click. That’s all it would take.

He looks around the studio at the oil portraits hanging from the walls—his life’s work. Their flaws call out to him. The old musician’s beard was a shade too light. The mahogany chair behind the weeping mother a centimeter too close. And then there was the stoic artist. 

The blundering buffoon. 

Paul lifts the self-portrait off the wall, his knuckles white from the strain of his grip. If only I could squeeze it into oblivion. 

He flings the canvas across the room.

Art is dead.

~ ~ ~

September 23, 1887

Mary looks at the boarded windows for what feels like hours before walking toward the door. Grandma had given her the key early that morning.

“Papa would have wanted you to have it,” grandma had said, a smile foldinging into the creases of her face.

That’s a lie.

Mary pushes the key into the black lock and twists. The door swings open with a creak and she stares into the dark space. 

White sheets hang over tables and chairs—a ghostly procession in the misty dust-filled air. The room smells of abandoned time. 

Mary walks in and notes the bare walls and blackened wooden floor. She pulls a sheet away, revealing an oak bookshelf. A thick cloud of dust billows into the air.

Granddad would hate knowing that I’m here.

She’s decades back now, her six-year-old hands proudly presenting a doodle of her family to her grandfather. 

“Abandon art, girl. Fill your time with more valuable endeavors,” Paul says, crumpling the paper. “You’ll thank me one day.”

Mary scoffs and throws the last sheet into the pile she’d created by the entrance. She sets her bag down and starts removing its contents—a couple canvas, brushes, and a set of paint. 

Kneeling over the bag, a white object under a nearby cabinet catches her attention. 

What’s that?

She slides a square canvas out, the bottom left corner dented, as though it had fallen from high in the air. Mary gasps as she turns the object over.

In her hands is the most beautiful painting she has ever seen. 

A black background folds into a young man’s formal jacket. The dark surroundings turning sharply to light as they approach the man’s face. His eyes are a light brown, with brilliant gold specs in them. There’s life in the eyes. Pain, too.

Mary recognizes the broad face and sharp jaw immediately. It’s her grandfather, though decades younger than Mary had ever seen him. 

But the eyes—they’re different. 

Hopeful. Inspired.

“Forget art. Read books. Study philosophy, science. Learn a trade. The world has so much to offer you, why imitate reality instead of understanding it, or adding to it?”

Mary shakes her head. Could this be the same man who had said those things?

A soft breeze flows through the open door, sending a chill down her spine. She knows what he must do.

Walking to the nearest stand, she places a canvas on it, and gets to work. Memories flood through her mind as she paints splotches of color. Chrome yellow—Paul reading a young Mary stories about dragons and princes. Viridian green—the old man tending his garden, picking a tulip for his wife. Cobalt blue—laying under the open sky telling tales of past adventures and missed opportunities.

~ ~ ~

December 4, 2017

Rob pulls out his phone to mark his location. 

Pop-up galleries are great date-spots. I may have to brush up on my art history if I want to sound impressive, though.

“Welcome!” comes a jovial voice. “Let me know if you have any questions about the pieces on display.”

Rob nods.

Looks like today’s all about impressionism.

He meanders through the gallery, stopping briefly at a couple pieces that catch his attention. A hazy Monet-like sunset, some ambitious pointillism, a splotchy garden. All things he’s seen before.

As he’s turning to leave, he sees a darker piece. It’s a diptych. 

Is that neo-classical on the left? No, romantic.

Two portrayals of the same man. Their canvases hold the yellowing weight of long years.

These are centuries old!

The moody chiaroscuro setting on the left stands starkly contrasted by the vibrant reds and greens on the right. Somehow both feel anchored, though. The young man’s hazel eyes stare back at Rob and tell him tales of the past—of love lost, stories told, and ideas immortalized. 

He bends in close to read the inscription.

“To Granddad: the Pain of Creation”

By Paul and Mary Demos