In Memory of Color

I once saw the world brighter than all those around me.

A walk along the shore was exhilarating — the colors, the vibrance! The turquoise blush of the waves, capped with ivory foam; the subtle shadows of the tossed white sand; each natural boulder glowing gently golden in the rising sun! All translated easily, seamlessly, into the language of my paintbrush: a wash of turquoise, an accent of cobalt, dabbles of swan’s feather white. Fluttering, short blue-grey brushstrokes for footprints in the sand. The sunrise was perhaps most difficult; but I was a daring artist if there ever was one, and my paints were dashed and swirled upon the canvas with the excited frenzy of a madman. The bronze sun emerged.

But my senses have dimmed, as of late. The edges of the world bleed and swim together as if its pigment has at last begun to wash away; worst of all, its colors dull and fade before my eyes. I can no longer differentiate between the winter sky — frosty, cool, crisp with smoky ice-blue accents — and the summer’s, which has always presented itself in warmer azure tones.

I am going blind, the physicians say.

Luca tells me I am far too old for painting now. He says it was only a matter of time before my age caught up to me, and that I am a fool for supposing to evade it. He is a vehement speaker, a vociferous man, and I am tempted to believe him.

Yet as good a friend as Luca is to me, he is wrong. I tell him so.

I remember, many icy winters and many azure summers ago, a customer came knocking on my door. He was young, grieved, and in need of a portrait.

But there was a catch. Two catches, actually. One, the portrait was not for himself — it was for his beautiful fiancé, who had recently passed away.

Two, the man was blind.

Hence, he had no photographs of the lady; what was the use of images he could never see? And if there were any, how was he to tell it was the right person? I laughed in his face and told him to find a necromancer, not an artist.

But the man would not be turned away so easily. He begged upon his knees, gazing desperately through the spot where I was standing.

“But what is the purpose?” I asked him. “How is a painting different from a photograph? You cannot see either.”

“It matters not. She had no family but me — no one to remember her, no one to prolong her memory. Once I die, she will be forgotten. There must be a way for her lovely face to be remembered, for the world to see whom I could not.”

“Why, then, did you not take photographs?”

“I was foolish,” said the man quietly, “foolish and happy. In the moment, we thought we would live forever.”

“Young people,” I muttered. The man continued.

“She would have to be here, in front of my eyes, for a photograph to be taken now. But she is gone. And a painting might be conjured from nothingness, even from one who no longer walks this earth; from nothing but paint and memory.”

“You are blind.”

“I know I am blind.” A sigh. “Please, signore, you are the most renowned painter in all of Venice. Surely this is simple work.”

Luca, who had been staying at my villa for coffee that afternoon, pulled me aside then. He told me to take the job. I refused.

“What am I to do?” I spluttered. “Turn back time? Raise the dead?”

“Paint the man’s fiancé,” he replied coolly, “relying on his memory of her. It will be good practice. Make your own decision, but remember that I have no qualms about making you swallow your own acrylics.”

A vehement speaker, as I said.

I ended up relenting, much to the man’s delight. Seeing his milky eyes light up in gratefulness and relief, I thought that perhaps this was the right choice after all, no matter how impossible of a task it was.

I began my work not even a day after.

“Was she skinny? Fat? Bony? Plump?”

“Slim. She felt so slight in my arms as I hugged her close.”

“And her face?"

“Small, rounded a little at the cheeks. She had a thin, straight eyebrow shape, and large eyes, I think.” A hesitation. “I am afraid I cannot describe the color of her eyes. But they scrunched slightly when she smiled. She was always smiling. She had the most beautiful smile.”

“Very nice. And did she kiss well?”

“What? Yes.”

“I see.”

“She had very soft lips. I think they were a bit thinner than she would have liked, but I had no complaints.”

“I would imagine not. What about her nose?”

“It was also small. There was a perfect curve from between her eyes to its tip.”

I rolled up my sketch, thanked the man, and told him to come back the next day. The man was eager to oblige.

“Tell me about her hair.”

“She had the softest hair in the world. It was like spun sugar, fine and flawless. It was straight and very long. She always kept it loose, although it fell down to her lower back. Whenever she was nervous, she would tuck it behind her ears. And — and she was fond of barrettes. When I stroked her hair, she often was wearing a clip on the left side of her head. On special occasions, she would wear one in the shape of a butterfly, or a flower. I believe she found them endearing.”

When I eventually began using paints, I was presented with the problem of color. I did not wish to dishonor the dead by painting her brunette when she should have been blonde; yet my dealings were in color, and what was a painting without it? 

After many nights spent pondering this issue, I came up with a solution. And two months later, I had finished; the portrait stood proudly in the center of the sitting room.

The lady smiled gently from the canvas, a seated figure with a soft face and limpid eyes that squinted as she smiled. She had long hair that reached past her narrow shoulders. Her dress flowed past her ankles, and the pin above her ear glittered, a delicate butterfly with closed wings.

Her skin was the lightest shade of grey; her hair a darker charcoal; her dress a monochrome shadow. 

I had painted the fiancé using only a black and white palette.

But the background — the background was different. Cerulean waves crashed against the alabaster sand, shadows auburn in the falling twilight. On one side of the lady, the darkened sun appeared as a copper penny, its surface reflecting a burnished light onto the heavy clouds. On the other side was a crescent moon dripping silver onto the roiling ocean. A few faint white stars pricked the sky.

The vivid colors were a sharp contrast against the greyscale subject: a coruscating landscape of sky and sea and light torn asunder, merged and held together by the ethereally beautiful shade seated on the sand.

To this day, it is one of my best works.

The blind man was ecstatic when I told him it was finished. He clutched the frame of the canvas, careful not to touch the thick, damp paint. He began to weep quietly, thanking me profusely through his tears.

What I never told him is that I painted one more figure beside the fiancé: a young blind man, smiling, his arm around her waist.

I recount all of this to Luca. His frown lessens as he falls back into remembrance of our younger days. 

“Ah, yes, use my own words against me,” he says grudgingly. “So your point? That blindness can be overcome?”

“No. That out of blindness can be created something beautiful; something beyond what sight can conjure. Darkness is not always evil.”

Luca is silent for a moment, but then he breaks out into a small smile. “You’ve gotten sentimental in your age, old man,” he says, leaning back. “Flowery. You never used to be so… philosophical.”

I indulge him in a chuckle. We are quiet, watching the sun set upon my balcony with the air of ones who have seen the world. Painted the world.

My colors have dimmed, yes. The primrose clouds no longer appear so bright. But the canvas is my world, the paintbrush my voice. How could I give them up? Is blindness such a terrible handicap?

After all, must not darkness be present for the stars to shine?