The Painting
One of Three
A painting hung in James’ room. It was rather large and it drew all attention on the wall where it resided. Beautiful hues covered the canvas, flowing into the next shade with careful strokes. It was bold, sharp and harlequin. Precise shapes defined the lines between the features. It was somewhat realistic, but quite surreal. It looked like a self-portrait of a mysterious beautiful woman. She had short bobbed hair that seemed to flutter in the wind, a small face with high cheekbones and heavy lidded brown eyes. It always seemed so alive.
James always had known that painting for as long as he could remember. His father hung it up when he was ten and it never left. It always sat in his room, drawing his eyes to it every time he lay in his bed at night. He knew every curve, every stroke and every shade of the painting. He always studied the painting when he was all alone in his bedroom. It usually led to neglected homework and procrastinated errands.
He would stand so close to the artwork until it all blurred into a mess of colour or go as far back as his room would allow and stare at it. He lied upside down on his bed and studied the inverted images and tilted his head to figure out new details about it. He knew it was done by oil paint because when he touched it, it was smooth but sticky and smelt like oil.
For how much he knew about the aesthetics of the painting, he knew absolutely nothing about the story behind it. He never knew the woman on the painting, who painted it, and why it was created. All he had gotten out of it was the date and the signature at the bottom of it. The signature was all too familiar to him that he could duplicate it in perfect detail; however it was too obscure to make out what exactly it said. The date was the year he was born. He couldn’t help to wonder if it related to him to one way or another.
After seventeen years of knowing the painting since he was born, he wanted to know something about it. He often mulled over it at night, in between drones of his teacher at class and when he pushed around food on his plate during dinner. Undoubtedly, he was always curious about it, but he was always too scared to ask about it. What if it had a very frightening secret or held something that James was not supposed to know? Every time he opened his mouth to his father, he always changed his mind by changing the subject, or dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
It was something that he teetered carefully on with his father. He lived alone with him in a small house in a suburban street. His father had split with his mother when he was ten, over matters that were a bit vague. He may not know much about the painting, but he had a feeling that his father valued it highly. He wondered how he related to the woman in the painting. Right now, he decided that he shall ask his father about it and no beating around the bush.
From nine o’clock at night, he had spent about a half of an hour gazing intently at it before he made the decision of asking his father for real. He yanked himself off from the bed and padded out of his bedroom. He walked down the narrow corridor that led to the living room and adjoining kitchen. The house may be small, but it wasn’t shabby. His father used to be successful in his prime.
“Dad?” James had poked his head around the corridor doorframe. His father looked up from the book he was reading. He looked so much like his son, with the same brown hair and eyes. He had matured well, with a few wisps of grey hair and few lines around his eyes. Apart from them, he still looked youthful.
“Yes, Jimmy?” he was curious about what his son was about to say. He knew that James had some questions that he found difficult to ask. He was prepared although. He expected it to be something about his divorce with his mother. He steeled himself, repeating the explanation he had rehearsed for five years in his head.
“You know the painting in my room?” James murmured, staring at the ground. He dared not to see his father’s reaction. However, the older man was shocked. He was taken by surprise. He knew that he would ask about it at some point, but not like this.
“Yes, the painting. What about it?”
“Who was the woman in it?” James finally stared up to his dad. His toffee eyes were so full of curiosity.
The father was robbed of any possible perfect answer for his son. He exhaled, sitting back on his chair. He had a very long history connecting to the painting and had no clue on how to describe it. He rubbed his face, dishevelling his hair in the process. He stood up, beckoning James to follow him. He led him into James’ bedroom where the painting lay on the wall like it always has. He sat on the bed, sighing. His son followed suit, perched next to him with an expectant face on.
He mulled over his best response before beginning. “The woman in it was the love of my life.”
For James, it was unexpected, but unsurprising at the same time. The picture did seem to hold some sensual feel, like it was personally painted for someone. James did expect that much, but for the love of him, he couldn’t imagine his dad with someone else other than his mother. The woman in the painting certainly was not his mother and his imagination couldn’t even fathom it.
He expressed his disbelief with a “Really?” his voice stretching the vowels indignantly. The older man nodded in confirmation.
“I know it sounds farfetched. But it’s true.” He added for extra measure.
“So how come I never met her?” James asked. The father paused, considering his response once again.
“She knew you when you were a baby.” His reply was sorrowful, saying it in a sense as if she no longer existed.
“Huh. Is she dead or something?” James was never more curious than ever in his life. His father was finally opening up to him about the mysterious but familiar painting. He didn’t know much about his father. He was rather guarded when they skip over personal conversations. So he was rather keen to know a bit more about the subdued older man sitting on his bed.
“Yeah.” The father replied, staring at the floor.
“What happened?” James was ever pestering.
“Alright.” The father sighed, giving up before beginning.
James always had known that painting for as long as he could remember. His father hung it up when he was ten and it never left. It always sat in his room, drawing his eyes to it every time he lay in his bed at night. He knew every curve, every stroke and every shade of the painting. He always studied the painting when he was all alone in his bedroom. It usually led to neglected homework and procrastinated errands.
He would stand so close to the artwork until it all blurred into a mess of colour or go as far back as his room would allow and stare at it. He lied upside down on his bed and studied the inverted images and tilted his head to figure out new details about it. He knew it was done by oil paint because when he touched it, it was smooth but sticky and smelt like oil.
For how much he knew about the aesthetics of the painting, he knew absolutely nothing about the story behind it. He never knew the woman on the painting, who painted it, and why it was created. All he had gotten out of it was the date and the signature at the bottom of it. The signature was all too familiar to him that he could duplicate it in perfect detail; however it was too obscure to make out what exactly it said. The date was the year he was born. He couldn’t help to wonder if it related to him to one way or another.
After seventeen years of knowing the painting since he was born, he wanted to know something about it. He often mulled over it at night, in between drones of his teacher at class and when he pushed around food on his plate during dinner. Undoubtedly, he was always curious about it, but he was always too scared to ask about it. What if it had a very frightening secret or held something that James was not supposed to know? Every time he opened his mouth to his father, he always changed his mind by changing the subject, or dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
It was something that he teetered carefully on with his father. He lived alone with him in a small house in a suburban street. His father had split with his mother when he was ten, over matters that were a bit vague. He may not know much about the painting, but he had a feeling that his father valued it highly. He wondered how he related to the woman in the painting. Right now, he decided that he shall ask his father about it and no beating around the bush.
From nine o’clock at night, he had spent about a half of an hour gazing intently at it before he made the decision of asking his father for real. He yanked himself off from the bed and padded out of his bedroom. He walked down the narrow corridor that led to the living room and adjoining kitchen. The house may be small, but it wasn’t shabby. His father used to be successful in his prime.
“Dad?” James had poked his head around the corridor doorframe. His father looked up from the book he was reading. He looked so much like his son, with the same brown hair and eyes. He had matured well, with a few wisps of grey hair and few lines around his eyes. Apart from them, he still looked youthful.
“Yes, Jimmy?” he was curious about what his son was about to say. He knew that James had some questions that he found difficult to ask. He was prepared although. He expected it to be something about his divorce with his mother. He steeled himself, repeating the explanation he had rehearsed for five years in his head.
“You know the painting in my room?” James murmured, staring at the ground. He dared not to see his father’s reaction. However, the older man was shocked. He was taken by surprise. He knew that he would ask about it at some point, but not like this.
“Yes, the painting. What about it?”
“Who was the woman in it?” James finally stared up to his dad. His toffee eyes were so full of curiosity.
The father was robbed of any possible perfect answer for his son. He exhaled, sitting back on his chair. He had a very long history connecting to the painting and had no clue on how to describe it. He rubbed his face, dishevelling his hair in the process. He stood up, beckoning James to follow him. He led him into James’ bedroom where the painting lay on the wall like it always has. He sat on the bed, sighing. His son followed suit, perched next to him with an expectant face on.
He mulled over his best response before beginning. “The woman in it was the love of my life.”
For James, it was unexpected, but unsurprising at the same time. The picture did seem to hold some sensual feel, like it was personally painted for someone. James did expect that much, but for the love of him, he couldn’t imagine his dad with someone else other than his mother. The woman in the painting certainly was not his mother and his imagination couldn’t even fathom it.
He expressed his disbelief with a “Really?” his voice stretching the vowels indignantly. The older man nodded in confirmation.
“I know it sounds farfetched. But it’s true.” He added for extra measure.
“So how come I never met her?” James asked. The father paused, considering his response once again.
“She knew you when you were a baby.” His reply was sorrowful, saying it in a sense as if she no longer existed.
“Huh. Is she dead or something?” James was never more curious than ever in his life. His father was finally opening up to him about the mysterious but familiar painting. He didn’t know much about his father. He was rather guarded when they skip over personal conversations. So he was rather keen to know a bit more about the subdued older man sitting on his bed.
“Yeah.” The father replied, staring at the floor.
“What happened?” James was ever pestering.
“Alright.” The father sighed, giving up before beginning.