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Her hands went to her mouth and she gasped. It felt as though the breath had been punched from her – snatched away by the impossible beauty.
The image was rendered flawlessly, capturing an essence of longing and yearning that gave the painting an air of poignant perfection. She stepped towards it, fearful that the illusion might somehow be dispelled, but instead it became even more powerful as she came closer. She studied the canvas in awed incredulity, shaking her head, feeling a mist of tears well in her eyes. It was as though she were looking at a perfect twin – a miracle of skill that gave the image life and energy and dimension.
“It’s stunning!” Connie said at last. She heard the little tremor of emotion in her voice and could feel the running beat of her heart. Somehow, in some way she could not explain, the painting had the lustrous qualities of light and life.
Blake stood back, gratified by Connie’s reaction. He could see in the set of her body and in the tone of her voice that her pleasure was genuine. “Don’t touch it,” he warned. “Parts of the painting will still be wet.”
He went and crouched beside her. He snatched up the thick-rimmed glasses from his paint table and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder for many quiet minutes, inspecting every inch of the canvas. Blake’s eyes were critical, looking for small flaws. Connie’s eyes were wide with head-shaking awe.
“It’s like you captured the essence of me – my soul,” Connie said in a husk. “But she’s too beautiful to be me, Blake. The woman in your painting – she’s so perfect, so utterly real with emotion and grace and… and all the qualities that I don’t have. But she looks like me…” Connie fell into a wondrous silence for a long moment as though grappling to understand how the figure in the painting could be a mirror of her, and yet evoke so many feelings and subtle qualities in just her expression, her presence. “How did you do that?”
Blake felt a lump choke off his breathing and fought to suppress it. “I painted you how I saw you,” he said softly. “I painted you through adoring eyes, Connie.”
She snapped her head around – their faces were just inches apart, and Blake saw the deep swirl of sentiment move like a passing shadow behind her gaze.
“It’s the best thing you have ever painted,” Connie whispered, the words said thick with her own disbelief that such a thing could be possible. “I thought you were the greatest seascape painter of our generation… but you’re even better at portraits. Blake – this is the kind of art that hangs in museums, not just galleries.”
He dismissed her praise with a wry smile, but inside he was chuffed with pride. Connie’s admiration was glowing, and he felt unaccountable satisfaction. She was no critic, he realized. But she was the inspiration for the painting, and her approval mattered more than any critical acclaim.
He set the glasses down, rubbed his knuckles at his eyes to try to clear the blur. He stood up straight, went back a few paces and patted Ned’s head. The Great Dane yawned, reveling in the small amount of unexpected attention.
“What do you think Ned?”
The dog leaned against him, heavy as a falling boulder so that Blake had to brace himself to hold his balance. Ned waited patiently until Blake scratched his back.
Connie turned to him from where she was crouched. “What are you going to call it?”
Blake shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Connie looked aghast. “Of course it matters!” she declared. “All the great paintings throughout history are known by a name.”
Blake gave her a small indulgent smile. “Well I really haven’t thought about it,” he said. “How about ‘Woman Standing By a Window’?”
Connie’s expression became mortified. “You’re joking, right?”
“Well why don’t you come up with a name?”
Connie thought seriously. She turned once more back to the painting, consumed by every inch of perfection. The rose was exquisite – so real she had the urge to inhale its fragrance. She noticed, too, how bright and clear were the whites of her eyes now, when set within the rest of the colors.
“It has to be a good name – something worthy of the painting. What about ‘Woman at the Light House’?” she offered. “How about that?” She turned back to Blake to gauge his reaction.
“Sure.” Blake said. To him it really didn’t matter. And then, suddenly it did. A better name struck him. “How about we call the painting ‘Lady of the Light House’?”
Connie liked that name best of all.
42.
“What will you paint next?” Connie asked sweetly.
They were walking hand-in-hand in the wet sand. Further along the beach, Ned was running with his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. The dog was weaving in and out of the surf line, splashing amongst the waves, and then scampering away towards the rocky promontory in pursuit of gulls.
“I have no idea,” Blake admitted. It was a clear and perfect afternoon. The sky was blue, the sun was warm on his face, and he was content. Connie’s hand within his felt natural, and the brush of her hips and shoulders against him as they walked along the hard wet waterline was intimate.
“What about a still life?” Connie swept the breeze-blown hair from her face and looked up into his eyes. “Every great master of the past painted still life. Maybe you should give it a try.”
Blake looked bemused. “You mean pieces of fruit?”
“It doesn’t have to be fruit,” Connie frowned. “What about silverware, or different pieces of glass? I’m trying to think about the kind of things that would give you a new challenge – objects that would stretch your ability.”
Blake suddenly laughed. “I knew another artist who painted still life,” he said suddenly. “He painted from life – no reference photos, but he was also damned slow at his craft, so he went and bought pieces of imitation fruit. That way he could leave the setting for days or weeks without having any of his display spoil.”
Connie nodded. She didn’t see anything funny in the tale. “That makes good sense…” she said, the words lifting her voice into a kind of question.
“In theory, it did,” Blake was still smiling. “But he was a realism painter, just like me – and pretty good at what he did. He painted the pieces so well that the critics complained his fruit looked too plastic.”
They laughed together, the sound echoing along the lonely beach and carried on the gentle breeze. Blake slipped his arm around Connie’s waist and pulled her a little closer.
“Would you think about painting a still life if I asked Thad to bring some real fruit, next time he makes a grocery delivery?” Connie persisted, bringing the conversation back on point.
Blake nodded without any conviction. He had slain his dragon. He had made a painting that was perfect in his eyes, and he realized then that there were no worlds left he wanted to conquer. The portrait had been his last painting.
“Maybe,” he said without interest. “But right now I’m happy to spend time in the sun with you. Painting can wait. I don’t have any plans for what lies ahead.”
Connie stopped on the sand, her expression piqued. “Didn’t the last couple of weeks inspire you again, Blake?” she sounded incredulous. “Didn’t you feel the old thrill of having your skills come back to you, a resurgence in your passion for painting?”
Blake became serious. They were standing within the embrace of each other’s arms, the sand between their toes and the lapping hiss of spent waves running over their feet. He gazed into her eyes.
“No,” he said, and she could see that he meant it. “Connie, my vision is going, faster than I thought. I wasn’t inspired to paint again. That’s not why I made the portrait. I wanted redemption, not a new career.”
“But you’re so brilliant!” she protested. “Can’t you see that it’s a waste of your gift if you don’t continue to paint?”
He shook his head. “Not once in those two weeks did I allow myself to get excited about art again,” he said without tone or timbre in his voice. “Because I knew it would b
e futile, Connie. How many blind artists are there in the world?”
“There must be some.”
“Name one. Name a famous one.”
Of course, she couldn’t.
43.
Connie and Blake were on the beach together two days later when the unexpected sound of a truck’s diesel engine made them both look up towards the house in curious surprise.
They glanced at each other – it wasn’t delivery day from the grocery store – and then they went sprinting up across the hot sand with Ned streaking away ahead of them, his bark like a boom of thunder.
It turned into a race, and Connie won by a couple of paces.
