My Girl in Blue

                            My Girl in Blue

    We bought a house not long ago. It is old and in need of care. Care costs money which we don’t have, so I have been put in charge of doing more with less, unless some unknown person bequeaths a generous contribution to my befriend me site.

    I have some experience with the basic needs of a house but am also prone to “biting off more than I can chew,” a euphemism  that causes me to experience a choking sensation when unexpected skill problems arise.

    Basic carpentry, plumbing, and electrical skills are all helpful when tackling a project that’s been in the making for over a hundred and fifty  years, and has seen its share of others like myself who believed they could do more with less, but find they haven’t the actual ability to placate their vanity. I do believe there are times when you must jump in, come hell or high water;   high water being the optimum words. The old adage “if at first you don’t succeed,” means you should probably have considered the delicate balancing act between competence and enthusiasm; they are not the same, and I will attest to that. 

    I decided to start small. The bathroom needed some plaster patching, primer and paint applied to the walls and ceiling, and a leaking faucet replaced. None were monumental tasks assuming everything went well, which it usually doesn’t.

    The Media has done wonders for home improvement do it yourself shows on TV, but has in most cases failed to add caution to the list of items needed to complete a particular task without regret. Knowing my inadequacies regarding plumbing, I decided to begin by spackling and then painting the room. My confidence was growing as I had done some painting in the past and found it surprisingly relaxing. Also, the bath being on the second floor, the chance of gushing water reaching the ceiling was minimal. 

    When touring the house before making an offer, I noticed a number of paint cans on shelves in the basement. I had no idea if the paint was any longer useable, but the price was right and what did I have to loose. I assumed from the layers of dust on the lids that it was quite old, but if sealed properly, and luck contributed its share, I could accomplish the painting with little to no cost.

    I had read about the dangers involved with lead paint, but also knew from helping my Grandfather that it went on easily and shined like new silk, perfect for the trim around the window and door; and I had no plans ingest the paint, so lead ceased to be a concern.

    I made my way down the rickety steps to the basement and began inspecting the paint cans for color and sheen; bathrooms and kitchens are amenable to a glossy finish, where as bedrooms, living rooms, and all other rooms favor a flat finish that minimizes glare; in case you are a light sleeper and have an adverse reaction to car headlights at two in the morning. 

    I began to move the cans from the shelves onto a table where the light was more conducive to my quest. I have in my fumbled experience, gained the knowledge that paint, like people, change depending on the light. The paint you love at the store will no longer resemble your agonizing choice upon returning home. The empathetic salesperson at the store informs you that the order was a specialty item and non-returnable. “And that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

    Florescent lighting is often the source of blame, as well as your eyes deceiving your mind into believing what you had envisioned as a finished project, turned out better than what you’d hoped for.

    After moving about a dozen cans I noticed something that had been propped against the wall behind them. It too was covered with dust and at first I didn’t know what it was. I pulled it from its hiding place and found it to be a portrait of a young girl. She was wearing a bonnet, a shawl, and a full-length blue dress. 

   I set the picture aside, planning to look at it more closely when time allowed. It was in need of cleaning, and I, not being close to an authority on art restoration, decided I would first engage myself in the paint appropriation business and then do some research on how to remove grime from what looked to be an oil painting. All in all it was a great distraction, I was as ignorant about paint and color as I am about art in any form. Sometimes anything that takes your mind off your inadequacies is a blessing, dust and all. I know what I like and what I don’t like, and that is the extent of my artistic awareness.

    The first can I attempted to open appeared to be a light green by the drippings on the side, or perhaps gray, the incandescent bulb did little to aid my speculation. I pried open the can to find the color of no consequence as the paint had hardened into a concrete-like substance of pale blue dotted with fossilized bits of black mold. Several more cans followed suit.

    One appeared from the blotch on the lid to be a peach color, which if it was useable would be adequate for any room that longed for either shine or sheen. I pried it open to find the contents in liquid form. Some black mold looked to be attempting to take over the contents of the can; nothing that couldn’t be addressed. My spirits began to rebound as I opened the next can, which brought back the apprehension I’d hoped to avoid. 

    I spent the rest of the hour prying open paint cans, finding some of interest while others were long past resurrection. I did manage to acquire twelve half full cans of varied color paints that appeared to be useable. The colors continued to be speculative in the basement light. I would take them upstairs where natural light was ample and make further decisions at that point.

    I had become so involved with my paint expedition that I’d forgotten the painting. It caught my eye as I went to pull the chain of the overhead bulb. The eyes are what fascinated me; they seemed to follow me as I walked toward the stairs carrying four cans of potential progress by their wire handles. 

    After several trips up and down the steps, the paint was situated in the mud room at the rear of the house. Feeling pleased with myself and the testament to commitment I’d been assigned, I decided to quit while ahead and make one further excursion to the basement to rescue the girl in blue. 

    As I approached the painting I could swear that the young dust-caked miss winked at me. I am not prone to exaggeration or whimsy, but do realize I am often persuaded by events that are out of the ordinary. In my attempt to make sense of them I have a tendency to add-lib a bit. But if I suspect there is a hole in a story I’m embellishing, I will fill it, human nature, or perhaps just mine.

    I managed to ascend the stairs without damaging the portrait on any of the dozen or so rusty nails that protruded from the wall, for what I presumed was a good reason at the time. I brushed some of the grime off with a rag that had been used to plug a hole in the exterior wall of the laundry room. The light dusting revealed a pleasant face and a adamant composure you would unlikely find on a child that had a disposition toward winking. 

    Not wanting to damage the painting, I decided before I went any further I’d take it to the living room where the light was better. I turned it over to discover it was stretched canvas on a frame of pine. When I righted the portrait I found the child was now smiling. I hadn’t remembered her smiling in previously, but then after six trips up and down the steps carrying paint cans, I may have been not only hoping for, but creating my own mystery to justify my lack of enthusiasm draped over my bathroom project.

    I picked up the portrait and attempted to examine it thoroughly for other signs of mystical intervention. Not only did she continue to smile, but I believe she began to squint as though the light was bothering her eyes. I leaned her portrait against the wall and stepped back to better analyze it in its totality; the forest for the trees syndrome you know. 

    I believed it to be a rather good painting. The lines were good, the colors were radiant, and the background appeared to mimic the living room of the house we were in. There was a signature in the corner of the paining but I couldn’t make out what the name was.  I liked the picture regardless of my knowledge of art, or paintings in particular for that matter.

    I decided before I went any further in removing the accumulated grime that I should seek some professional help. I didn’t believe the portrait to be of any real value, but I liked the playful quality the picture exuded; it gave me a sense of peace while bolstering my attitude about the project that lay ahead, the bathroom.

    I began to have a conception of me being the proud finder of a long-lost Rembrandt, or perhaps a Picasso from his early years.

    I decided a slight delay in beginning the bathroom project would not harm anyone, especially me, so I went to my computer and typed in “cleaning an oil painting.” The response advised a professional approach, as age, paint quality and type, as well as the artists mixing agenda could prove to be beyond the average person’s ability to clean and not destroy. 

    I couldn’t see how dabbing the area with a damp cloth where the name was written would cause any irreparable damage. I dampened a cloth and blotted away the dirt exposing the name Ananias Henry. 

    Before purchasing the home we did some research into its history. The  surname Henry came up quite a few times. The home had been built by a Henry, lived in over several decades by other Henrys, until it was purchased ten years ago by a man named Joyce, James Joyce to be precise. 

    I know names are often replicated and there was no reason to believe that the name James Joyce on the deed had any association with the late poet, but what can it hurt to believe. I had no knowledge of an illegitimate James Junior being associated with the James Joyce I was familiar with, but then again, who documents such things.   The mystery seemed to be growing exponentially as I uncovered one clue after another, and I wasn’t actually trying.

    I decided to take the professional advice and not continue cleaning the portrait should I cause damage to it. I still believed it held no monetary value, but I had grown fond of it, and it had only been an hour or so. I have grown fond of very few things over the years, and certainly not one in the shortness of time since my discovery. I had contemplated using the term love in regards to it, but that seemed a bit premature. 

    I blew as much dust from the painting as possible and moved it to the dining room where I propped it against a bureau mirror across from an east facing window. I sat at the dining table and watched as the figure appeared to be appreciative of her new surroundings. Her smile seemed to broaden. Her hand I believed had moved from being a ridged entity at her side, to now holding a scrub brush over her heart. A tear I had not noticed before appeared on her cheek, and a galvanized bucket was by her feet. I began to worry. What might I have awakened? 

     I am prone to exaggeration, or at least that is what I’ve been told. Often times in my pursuit of an answer, not only do I fill in the holes in stories with my own facts, but produce entire families of characters. Settings are my favorite as I can visit without having left, which is what we all really want to do; especially today with all the airport regulations, not to mention air borne diseases. 

    Before I could conjure a more spiritual insight from the portrait, my partner opened the living room door and hurriedly popped inside. She looked surprised to see me seated at the table admiring a portrait of my girl in blue. I imagine she expected me to be covered in paint and to find the ceiling in the dining room about to come crashing down because of the water hemorrhaging from the bathroom above.

    She only smiled her precocious smile and said, “where’d you get the Girl in Blue?” I hadn’t expected her to recognize the portrait, but then she is far superior to me when it comes to the arts. She should be, being she majored in art history at the university. We’ve both had some good laughs over that one. 

    “How do you know it by name?” I asked, surprised she had identified it so quickly and by name, the same as the one I’d so blithely assigned to it. “Is it worth anything?” The prospect of a windfall removing my obligation to assume all liability for what might happen, overwhelmed my lack of confidence. I almost prayed, but for the look the Blue Girl gave me, I decided not to tempt fate. 

    I had become overjoyed with the prospect of having a dose of professionalism enter our humble abode and leave us basking in its lead-free glow.

    “Have you been drinking?”

    A question like that does not deserve an answer, mainly because I couldn’t think of one that would not only assert my innocence, but make her feel unseemly for having asked. I pretended I hadn’t heard her.

    “You are avoiding the question. Is the paining possibly worth anything?”

    “How the hell should I know. The only reason it is familiar is because it’s on every can of cleanser in every supermarket I’ve ever been to. I think it’s an advertising promo for… oh…I forget the name of the cleanser, but despite the dirt, it’s a dead ringer.”

    My hopes of avoiding the mayhem that I predict will begin tomorrow as I hunt for paint brushes and pipe wrenches, has vanished like the dust that covers the paint cans and the “The Blue Girl.” It is a shame really, not because it would have let me off the hook, but because I really do like the portrait. 

    “If it is an original painting commissioned by the cleanser people, wouldn’t it be worth something?”

    “I suppose it might. But I don’t think until we can be sure, you should postpone your obligation to the house. Nothing teaches us like failure, and without failure, there can be no success at all. I believe I heard that somewhere. And knowing you, if the shoe fits, wear it.”

   " The problem with getting to know you, is that they get to know all about you. I believe I heard that someplace also."

    Wouldn’t you think that just once, something would fall out of the heavens, and it wouldn’t be sluffed angel feathers? But then again the portrait might be worth something; and even if it isn’t worth anything monetarily, it is worth something to me.

    “I believed she just winked at me again.”

    “You never know when to give it up do you?”