Fred the Painter

Fred the Painter

An elderly gent by the name of Fred entered Level 4, Room 10 of the British Tate Modern on a Sunday at noon, not knowing quite what to expect. The building buzzed with curiosity. Some saw him as a curiosity to be admired; others as a wonderful tale, perhaps full of historical value, to be filed away in the history books, to be read a generation later, in the dim light of a half-lit office, to be strung together into a grand narrative by a writer who eventually saw to it that Fred’s life was written down. Fred, or Freddy as some called him, was one of the most famous English painters of the late Cubism era of the year 1920. The room in which he now stood, in 2002, was the Cubism epicenter of English museums. Fred was 100 years old.

That day Fred had been snoozing in the corner of a sculpture room, a little further along than he normally chose to sit when he visited the museum. Gleaming ivory, beautiful colors, peaceful and pristine, he seemed to know exactly how they should be arranged in their frames, how far he could stretch his fingers before the pieces of wood snapped. He had carefully painted the paint on with his bare hands, with flower petals, with paints so delicate that he rarely touched them with a paint brush; flowers that always bloomed just for him. Once he had covered himself with green shaggy wool from his small home, from the fields he had cultivated with his own hands. On a winter morning he had carefully wrapped himself in cloths made of sheep wool, so that the outside world wouldn't have the pleasure of looking upon his fine beauty, and peeked out from beneath his warm woolen blanket. 

For years Fred had painted and painted, and with time the old man had come to know exactly how to draw the eye of the world, and how to draw it out of the shadows and into the sunshine, from the darkness into the light. He had painted and painted, and when the painting was complete, he had looked upon it one last time, in the twilight of a dawn that eventually broke into light, and kissed the painting from top to bottom. He had opened a drawer at the back of the painting, and taking out a tiny piece of polished iron, a key attached to a delicate silver chain, he had placed it at the bottom of the drawer, beneath the paintings he had painted on that day, and sat back and closed his eyes, resting for a little while in the embrace of his silent melodies, feeling his heart grow lighter with each note he played.

Pompous paintings that held meaning were not for him. That was something he did not need to know. Things were simple for him; all he needed was sunlight, and sunlight only. Too bad he had chosen old Blighty as his homestead for one hundred years.

Looking upon George Braques work now, Fred blinked slowly in the sunshine, tilting his head back a little further. Nothing, nothing would keep him from gazing out across the narrow streets of London, towards the magnificent buildings that seem to stretch in all directions; up, down, in all directions, looking at the dazzling city as it rose and fell along like country hills, skyscrapers reaching into the clouds. Looking at the beauty of London and remembering his youth, Fred, who loved London like no other city, only wished he could live for a few more years within it. A gentle breeze began to blow, lifting up the hairs of his long, white-blonde hair; a beautiful light broke into the darkness of dawn, and suddenly he opened his eyes, knowing that it was time for him to leave; he looked again, and the day dawned bright and clear.

Across the horizon, just before dawn had slowly crept into the sky, Fred saw the sun rising, its light reaching the shadows, gently touching them and revealing the beauty of truth. As the light shone onto the piano, the keys glowed, the light shining through the piano keys revealed another memory that he had buried; an everlasting memory that made his heart soar with joy. He remembered the very first time that he had played piano; he remembered that the light of truth, that had shone through the piano's keys, had touched the memory of his childhood and had created a magnificent memory of the past, when truth had lifted him into the light of dawn. A memory that would stay with him forever.

Inside the piano, the light illuminated the keys, and the piano played a melody of truth that shone through its keys; a melody that would carry him further on his journey, to the very last rays of the sun, shining through the windows of dawn.

That day Fred had been snoozing in the corner of a sculpture room at the Tate Modern, a little further along than he normally chose to sit when he visited the museum. He ran into an old friend, and they chatted for a while. Then Fred’s memory drifted back to that moment that the painting had been removed from the wall, and Fred remembered seeing his family’s sculpture standing there, illuminated by the sunlight, surrounded by a vast expanse of grass and gardens. He had said hello to the painting, and then set out to find his father.

Now Fred’s family had gone, and Fred’s piano lay silent and bare. Instead of piano keys Fred found crisp, clear images of his parents and his sister looking down at him from the surface of the piano.

Fred sat on the bench, looking at the mirror of his memories, and he wondered at the inspiration it took for his mother to sit painting his father’s portrait. How wonderful to paint such a sight for another human being, and how powerful the memory would be if she told him to go find his father. Would he remember, the way Fred remembered that moment, and the way he remembered his father’s portrait of the piano? Would he remember the sunshine and the twilight?

Fred’s friend Chris dropped in.

FRED: That was really wonderful, Chris, thank you for having me.

CHRIS: Yeah, you're welcome. You know, it's funny. Maybe, I wouldn't have given it a second thought, but I realized, sitting there watching you, how much I miss seeing you.

FRED: You miss me?

CHRIS: Yeah, I do, you were such a part of my life for so long.

FRED: Well, you're a part of my heart, you know that. It's not possible to forget you.

CHRIS: Yeah, maybe you were, but I'm sure I was there somewhere too, all along.

FRED: Maybe, maybe I was. I'm not sure. But thank you, for letting me go.

FRED: I'm sorry I had to send you that text.

CHRIS: Oh, no, Fred, I understand, I forgive you. I know you're good now.

FRED: Thank you, I don't deserve that. I didn't deserve it at all.

CHRIS: Come on, Fred. That was a beautiful text, you know?

FRED: Yes, I remember. But I know you're so happy now. I'm happy for you.

CHRIS: So am I. I hope I've been that good for you. I hope you could say the same for me.

FRED: Of course I do. I have a good memory. Sometimes I forget the beauty of it all, but when I'm there, it always seems to me that my heart is full. That's why I'm looking at this piano, why I'm remembering that time. Because I know I have the power to draw a bright smile from you again.

CHRIS: Hey, let me try that. Let me try the piano keys, that'll be my thank you for you.

FRED: (laughing) I should probably get back now. Let me do the sunset, you know, so that you remember the light of the piano again.

CHRIS: Yeah, but I have a friend here too, and she's sleeping. She loves the sunset too, but we're friends. And so I think I'll stay and watch the sunset for a little longer. It'll be good for both of us.

FRED: Well, it is all for you, so I'm happy to stay a while longer.

FRED: See you soon, Chris.

CHRIS: Yeah, goodnight, Fred.

FRED: All right, see you soon.

And as he did so, he felt a great sense of longing and gratitude for all the people that were inside of the museum and the history they shared. Fred’s memories of the museums and buildings made him quite happy and, perhaps, filled him with hope.

His sadness turned to hope when he noticed a wall with a sign that read: “Lost, please do not leave until someone remembers you.” Fred tried to cling to that memory, and hope that some part of Chris remained in that building. He hoped that some part of his friend’s memory might still live on through him.

After a while of wandering, Fred walked to a nearby park where a couple of elderly couples were sitting on a bench together. They were sitting quite close to each other and, just as Fred was about to say hello to the men, one of them reached out to Fred and embraced him as if they were lovers. Fred didn’t know what to say, he had never heard love spoken so clearly. It was a gentle sort of love that might have been forgotten if not for the couple’s determination to remember. Love was a memory.

Fred sat on the bench alone and stared at the grass. He missed his friend Chris and wished he could have helped him. But he also wished that Chris had been able to say goodbye to the world and to people. Hope was a memory, and, as such, could be lost.

But there was hope still. Hope, a memory, that his friend Chris would someday be remembered. Hope, a memory, that love would live on. Hope, a memory, that love would someday be returned.

********

In summary, Fred was an artist who often went to the British Museum for inspiration and had one good friend Chris who passed away not too long ago. He speaks to his ghost and then goes for a walk in the nearby Bloomsbury area, hugs a stranger, and then meditates on a bench. That is the story of Fred walking through time.