Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash
My Mother's Portrait
How many times have I insisted on a quiet life free of disturbances? Many, I guess such a reality is not for me. I guess, it is only for those people who manage to integrate, who get what they want with great charisma; a quality that I do not have and I find it hard to obtain because loneliness is as delicious as a glass of old wine.
I live in London in 1987, in a building rebuilt by wealthy real estate agents. In apartment 6B you can find me at any time of the day. I do not leave my space unless necessary. Order and neatness rule, thanks to a cleaning lady, who tried to be my friend, who comes once a week. She was an older woman with a calm heart, comforting words, and a sense of humor quite unusual for a person of her age.
I liked her, but only that and nothing more. You may wonder what my occupation is, and the answer is often complex. Sometimes I give so many that people in the end are not clear about my actual occupation. I am a man who stimulates dreams in people's minds. A creator of realities captured on a canvas of paper. A maker of cultures, landscapes, and people. Although I wouldn't say I like to use them too much, I am a painter.
Since the beginning of my childhood, I discovered my creative gifts by admiring the crystal clear water of a stream. I come from a village called 'Colmar' located in France, where my father and mother were also born, raising my sister and me with a strict Christian code. After my father's death, my mother became more devoted to the church and wanted to force us to be as devout as she was. But I did not look at the stained glass windows, the structures, and the sacred words with interest, for in my mind flitted ideas that; perhaps in a more remote age, would have condemned me as a pagan.
I saw the world as Van Gogh, Klimt, Moreau, Mellery, Victor Hugo and other great artists saw it. My eyes distorted reality and at that moment, my hands wanted to paint it. I wished madly that my mother would give me a canvas and a brush, with multiple oil colors that would allow me to draw the world as I see it. Still, my talent was seen by her as an evil to be eradicated, and hundreds of times she tried to break my spirit so that I would forget those ideas.
I could never forgive her. And although my longings crumbled, my spirit resurfaced to fulfill my dreams. At the age of fourteen, I ran away from home, without even leaving a letter to my mother or my sister. I just went, without looking back at the cage that held me.
I arrived in Paris and met other vagabonds like me. I survived with them, until, finally, I managed to run into artist-painters. They discovered my creativity and taught me what they knew. I was able to make a living through art; my only savior. I grew up and succeeded thanks to my passion and work for art. I did not see my sister again until January 23, 1987, a date that closed a cycle for me.
She arrived unexpectedly one morning, I opened the door and, astonished, I recognized her immediately; she still had the same hairstyle that characterized her straight blonde hair.
"Mon frère, j'ai enfin pu te trouver," He said in our native tongue. "Combien d'années se sont écoulées depuis que je n'ai pas vu ton visage!"
I was petrified not knowing what to say. I didn't know whether to cry or hug her or just give her a wave. The life I have led has turned me into a statue; empty and emotionless. I feel that at this point in my life, nothing can disturb me.
I turned away from her and looked at her with a cold, serene face.
"Hello, Monique, twenty-seven years have passed exactly," I replied in the most nonchalant manner possible. She was stunned by my response, I didn't even offer to hold her hand.
"I didn't expect this reaction from you," she blurted out. "Are you seriously not going to give your sister a hug?"
"What do you want? I'm too busy," I pointed out undaunted. She couldn't escape her astonishment.
"It seems that the years have turned you into an indifferent and cruel creature, contrary to what you show in your works, where everything is colorful and exciting."
"Have you seen my works?" I inquired curiously.
"How do you think I found you?" She revealed, and my hands began to tremble. "I just had to follow the trail of your work and, lo and behold, here I am, but I'm very disappointed."
"Why?" I asked her in an agitated manner. "I am now a successful painter, my creativity and talent have given me a house, food, and drink that I can afford to enjoy. I never needed a family, just my mind and the things I can create because of it."
Monique's eyes welled up with tears as she heard my harsh words. I'm sure she looked at me with grief, full of lamentation and pain.
"Oh, dear brother! I'm sorry I didn't come with you. Perhaps it would have appeased the demons our mother threw at you and made you leave, but let me tell you, she cried for you every day since you left, searching for you as only a mother would search for a lost son. I came to tell you that she died six months ago; and she died sad, for she kept the hope that she would see you before she gave up her last breath."
A cold strangling chill rushed down my neck, hardly letting me breathe. I looked at Monique and she was broken down in tears. Several happy memories flooded my mind. Days of my childhood, where I smiled together with my sister and my mother over the green fields of Colmar, enjoying the fresh air and the harmony of laughter.
My mother's face had never looked so beautiful. An unbridled impulse touched my chest and undid the hard concrete covering my heart. Without realizing it, I began to hug my sister tightly, and her weeping became my weeping, and her mourning was now part of my soul, and we were there, tucking each other in with comfort.
After a while, my sister left. She swore she would come back to visit me on her next visit to England. After saying goodbye, I created a painting; which healed my pain with every stroke I made. That was my cure, that beautiful memory. That evocation of my childhood with a beautiful and illuminated face. The reminiscent effigy of my mother, the last time I saw her happy.
THE END
Other publications of my authorship
 | |
|---|---|
 | |
 |