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Now it was over – or was it?
Blake felt Connie untangle her fingers from his and move away from him for an uncomfortable moment, and then she was back, and he sensed she was standing close before him.
“Blake, I want to introduce you to my sister, Jean.”
The woman’s hand was thin, the fingers almost like bones. He shook her hand and said hello. Then suddenly he inhaled a cloud of lavender so thick that it almost choked him.
“And this is my mother, Ruth. She’s been anxious to meet you.”
Blake felt the elderly woman’s fingers cup his face and he stooped dutifully. She kissed him on the cheek, and his eyes watered from the strength of her perfume. He muttered a welcome, listened to Connie’s mother exclaim about the beauty of his paintings for a few moments, and then the crowd seemed to surge around them so that he felt an arm sneak around his waist and someone brazenly pinched his bottom. He flinched, startled.
“Speech!” someone called out, and the cry was picked up and repeated by the crowd.
Connie made a quick speech, thanking everyone for attending.
“Opening the doors of this gallery has been the completion of a dream,” she said. There were so many smiling faces pressed at her that she didn’t quite know where to look. “And I hope that in the years ahead, all of you will return to see new exhibitions from some of the finest artists in the world. I would like us all to be friends, and I would like you all to know that you will always be welcome here.”
They started to applaud, and Connie had to hold up her hands to quell them again. “Finally I would like to thank Blake. By generously allowing me to show his lost works, and his new portrait, he has provided me with the chance to meet you all, and the opportunity to make my dream come true.” She stepped away from Blake and started to clap. Everyone joined her. It was a drumming of enthusiasm he hadn’t heard for years. He felt himself the center of attention, felt all their eyes upon him, and he knew he was expected to say something. He just didn’t know what to say – until he opened his mouth, and spoke from the heart.
“Connie came into my world at a difficult time,” he began, speaking softly, as if there was no one at all in the room. “And through her love and laughter, her passion and her persistence, she lifted me up from the darkness of my despair and showed me the joys of life again. I doubt I would be here without her…” his voice trailed away into an introspective silence for long moments and then came back, stronger, as though what he said now, he wanted everyone to hear.
“I thought going blind was the end of my art career. I painted Connie’s portrait because I wanted redemption. Now I am going to begin painting again – for no other reason than without art, there will always be some tiny part of me that yearns to be heard.” He listened to the gasp of disbelief from the crowd and he sensed even Connie’s surprise. He had not discussed this with her because he had not expected the sudden poignant rush of passion that had come from out of the silence until now it seemed deafening.
“So on Monday I am going to return to the easel – not to paint seascapes, nor to paint portraits. I’m going to paint emotion.”
He felt himself frowning, felt the expectation of the crowd, and he went on quickly because it needed to be explained – not for them, but for him to understand what was rising in his heart.
“For years I painted scenes that evoked emotion – dramatic seascapes, or beautiful sunsets across a beach – images that made people feel through nature. Now that I have lost my sight, I cannot do that again, not to my own high standards. But what I can try to do, with the advantage of being sightless, is to look inside, and to try to capture feelings on canvas – raw shapeless movement and colors that are the essence of feeling.”
He sensed them coming to him, his instincts picking up on the hum of expectation, or intrigue. He waved his hand in the air, as though painting on a canvas in the sky.
“I want to portray love, loss, hope and sadness – everything we feel as people, without visible images to enhance those feelings. I want to paint pure, so that shape and color are infused with their own power, their own emotions. And I hope, when the new works are completed, you will come back to Connie’s gallery – and bring your checkbooks with you!”
They applauded him until the wave of sound was like a solid thing, and he felt Connie warm against him, covering his face with excited kisses. “I knew you would paint again!” she whispered against his lips, for she was brimming with joy, her eyes alight and loving.
As a man, Blake McGrath had survived, and as an artist, he was about to make a comeback.
THE END.
