Beyond Dreams and Reality

“I hope you're patient because I tend to take my time. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh no. I want you to take your time. Don’t worry about me, just do everything how you’d normally do it.”

“Mmm. Are you comfortable at least?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Ok. If you're ready just shift your head slightly to your left. Yes, like that, but try to keep your eyes on me. I know it may be a bit uncomfortable at first, but I promise the outcome will be worth it.”

“No problem. Is like this okay?”

“Um. Do you mind if I move you actually?”

“Go ahead. I’m only the object after all. You're the artist, do as you please.”

“—I wouldn’t go as far as calling you an object.”

“But that’s what I want to be. I want to be completely perceived through your eyes. Maybe then you can give me some idea of who I am.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. I guess I constantly have this feeling that I’m missing something about myself that I can’t afford to be oblivious to.”

“Missing something like what? If I may ask.”

“Well, it’s hard to explain really. I always have a suspicion that something’s off, but there’s just no specifying what. In the mornings when I wake up, for example, I take a minute to just look around my apartment. I can tell that everything is exactly where I left it: my books, my clutter, my coffee mug, all as it should be. And yet, it only feels vaguely familiar. It doesn’t feel like I live there, rather it feels like I could’ve been there before just like I could’ve been anywhere else. I even feel it when I travel. Doesn’t matter what I take, as soon as I gaze out the window I can’t seem to recall anything about who I am or where I’m going. It’s like I’m a drifter in my soul and it leads me nowhere.”

“I see. So, you think a painting will get rid of that feeling?”

“No. I don't think I’ll ever be rid of this feeling, to be honest with you. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. In a way, I think this feeling dwells within the part of me where my selfness is supposed to be.”

“Your selfness?”

“You know, all the things that make up a person, like hating wet socks or loving the Beatles, or having nightmares about Teletubbies. Everyone has a random combination of qualities and circumstances that form their identity. Everyone except me of course.”

“How come? Don’t you have anything that makes you feel like you?”

“Not particularly. I’m indifferent to most things and things that bother me I avoid.”

“What things bother you?”

“Huh. Funny enough, one of the things is similar to what we’re doing now.”

“What? Having your portrait done? 

“No photographs.”

“Ah, I see. What bothers you about photographs?”

“I can never recognize myself in photographs. Every time I’m caught in a picture I’m filled with confusion. Is that really me? I have thoughts like that. And then I’m filled with shame.”

“Do you feel confused and ashamed because you don’t like the way you look?”

“No. Like I said before I’m indifferent to most things, including how I look. I guess it’s just that every picture reveals me emptier than the last. I see it in my skin, my eyes, and my hair. No one else would notice it because what I’m describing is this invisible coating of vitality that seems to be draining from me as time goes by. For instance, when I look at a photo of me from my childhood I feel an overwhelming sense of grief. This little girl has died, I think to myself. It’s ridiculous for me to register that the little girl in those pictures grew into whatever I am now. She truly is dead. I don’t remember anything about her.”

“Well, how did she die?”

“Hmm. I don’t know now that I think about it. She might’ve simply slipped away from me. She must’ve gotten lost along the way, somewhere amongst the infinite possibilities of dreams and reality.”

“But you’re still young. Why don’t you get her back?”

“Oh no. I have a feeling that she may be happier without me. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to speak of these things. Should I keep quiet, I don’t want to disturb your work.”

“No, don't apologize. You’re fine as you are. Talking helps me focus, believe it or not.”

“Alright. Then, if you don’t mind. I have a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Sure. Ask me anything.”

“But you must promise to answer honestly.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Okay. Then, when I first stepped into your studio… What did you think of me? Like how did I seem?”

“Well, you seemed normal I guess. Just like any client. Although, you were a bit timid so I was surprised you opted for a nude portrait. I was expecting you to go for something more traditional. But I can say that sketching you now, I do understand what you’ve been talking about. You see, most people have at least one distinctive quality about them which I can focus on and expand on in their portrait. They have a certain feel to their composition, call it their essence or aura or whatever you will. But it's different with you. Even within all the sketches that I’ve done so far, there seems to be nothing about you that I can grasp onto. Not that I’m going to give up. I’m sure something will come up eventually.”

“I see.”

“Why the long face? Was my answer not good? 

“No, excuse me. I’m just relieved. But a little sad at the same time. Relieved because you’re the only person who’s come close to understanding my experience. But sad because it confirms my dreadful suspicion. I’m rapidly losing myself. Soon nothing will be left and I’ll only be a shell of a human being.”

“We can pause if you like. There are tissues to your right.”

“Ignore me, I don’t mean to cry. I've always been sensitive.”

“You know, I don’t know if this helps, but I did leave something out of my first impression.”

“And after you said you wouldn’t lie.”

“I didn’t lie! I just didn’t state the complete truth because it may be inappropriate for this current dynamic.”

“I don’t mind. Spill.”

“Well, even though you’re indifferent about how you look, I think you’re beautiful. And I don’t say this to flatter you, it’s merely my professional opinion. That’s why I found it a bit funny when you asked me to paint you because I would’ve paid you to sit for me. Don’t snort! I mean it. I know this makes me sound like just some guy, but when you walked in I couldn’t help but stare. And yet I had to keep staring to figure out why. Maybe it’s that same problematic blackhole of yours that allows you to possess such an unconditional, ethereal beauty.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Oftentimes it’s the unexpected things that we need to hear the most.”

“You seem to have an answer for everything.” 

“No. At least, I don’t have an answer because I know. In the same way, I don’t paint just because I can. It’s deeper than that. I tell you this because I feel it deep within me, like an all-encompassing truth beyond all subjectivity. And the only way I’ve learned to express this truth is through my art. It allows me to see the beauty in not just you but in everyone and everything. So if it makes you uncomfortable I apologize, but this is simply how I approach the world.”

“Well, it doesn't make me uncomfortable. It scares me. To think that someone believes that something like beauty lives inside me. It’s simply bizarre.” 

“May I ask you something?” 

“Sure.” 

“Do you remember what you said earlier when we first started? You said you wanted to be perceived completely through my eyes. Yes?” 

“That's right.” 

“Has it ever occurred to you why that would matter? Here, I’ll tell you what I see when I look at you. Young woman, early twenties, average height, slim stature. Heart-faced, olive skin, almond eyes, brown hair. Full lips, soft neckline, small breasts, long legs. This is who you are physically in front of me. You’ve exposed yourself in the most vulnerable way. That doesn’t strike me as indifference. Do you know what I think? I think you're looking for someone to convince you otherwise. I don’t think your selfness has perished somewhere into the abyss, nor do I think that the little girl that you lost has died. You’re still in there, why else would you have dragged yourself all the way here to me?”

“Truthfully, I was hoping that you’d help me find what I’ve been missing my entire life. Maybe my lenses are clouded giving me an obstructed view. That’s why I needed a fresh pair of eyes.”

“But I can’t give you that perspective just by looking at you with my eyes. My eyes are limited. It’s when I close my eyes that I truly see you for all you are. I collect fragments of you in my mind to compose a vision that’s then projected onto my canvas. That’s why you’re sitting here in front of me. Not for me to copy and paste your physical form, but to unveil the infinite truths that lie beneath your surface. And I may have succeeded in doing that. Look at what I have so far.”

“Oh wow. That’s nothing like what I was expecting.”

“Sometimes, it's the—”

“Yes, yes the unexpected that we need the most. This truly is what I needed to see right now.”

“Do you feel ashamed or confused?”

“How could I? I’m all there. Is this really how you view me?”

“I told you, I’m incapable of lying in my art. What you see is true for me.”

“Beauty is usually in the eye of the beholder. But for you, I’d say something like beauty’s in the heart of the painter.” 

“Mmm. Very poetic.”

“Don’t laugh! It’s a compliment!”