Greqoh
06-30-2006, 07:46 PM
Pictures Of Emily
by L. Greqoh
I’ll never forget the day I met her, she whose face still haunts my dreams. It was a cool spring evening in New Port, Oregon. I labored behind my easel on the beach, trying to capture in oil the beauty of the coastline at sunset. My canvass was nearly finished, but it felt empty.
There comes a point in an artist’s life where his soul is no longer stirred by deep cerulean skies. When fiery altocumulus clouds no longer ascend like stairways into heaven, but are bereft of inspiration, mundane phantoms that pass on pointlessly. In time, we grow deaf to the roar of ancient tides, they cease to cause reflection in a time worn soul. Snow capped peaks no longer command awe, but mock at our insignificant stature.
A lonely life of academic aesthetic contemplation had proven pointless and to the hunger in my heart. The silence in my home was no longer an asset to my artistic drive, but an unbearable chill to my soul.
I let the brush slip from my fingers and fall to the ground. Unable to push back these feelings any longer, I prepared to pack my things and leave. It was then that I saw her.... She walked slowly to the water, spreading out a yellow blanket. I watched her sit in solemn contemplation of the roaring waves. A long modest white dress concealed her figure. Her petite form revealed itself underneath as the fabric rippled in the wind.
I found myself fascinated by her jet black hair, the way it fell down her back like strands of swarthy silk glistening before the dazzling sun, the way it danced in the winds revealing the flawless oval structure of her face, her high cheeks and strong noble brow.
At once, I retrieved my brush and began to paint her onto my canvass. For a while perhaps, she did not notice my intense fascination with her. This was well, for I desired to capture her as she was then at that moment.
I noticed the young woman began talking to herself. A look of hopelessness spread across her face. Then, like a startled deer, she turned and faced me. She saw the easel and the pallet in my hand. I suppose she was greatly flattered by my interest for she did not move for nearly an hour, merely smiling knowingly as if to give her consent to my artistic voyeurism. Her mood was much improved.
I could have painted her forever, but she appeared to grow ill. She held her hand over her lower stomach began talking to herself again. Her countenance grew sullen and she rose to leave.
I walked to her, announcing my presence while standing respectfully back. “Forgive my impulsiveness. My name is Victor, Victor Blackwood.”
She clutched the blanket and shrank back like a shy girl, her azure eyes wide and unsure.
I took a step back and continued, “I am an artist. I come here often to paint the coast. I believed an Oregon sunset was the most beautiful thing in the world.... until this evening....when I saw you.”
Despite herself, a warm smile arose across her flushed face as she looked to the ground and turned her head. “Mr. Blackwood....”
“Victor.....”
“You flatter me, Mr. Blackwood, but I really need to be going.”
“Please....one thing I ask,” I said as I began to walk back toward my easel. “Come and see....You have inspired me this morning Ms....”
She did not give her name, but after pausing for several seconds, she followed me to the canvass.
“All right, Victor.”
She examined the painting with a look of fascination. For several minutes she examined it without speaking, her wide, child like eyes drank in every detail.
“I thought that it was finished this morning, but something was lacking,” I explained as I pointed to the partially finished figure of a young girl on the golden sand. “Now I know what it was.”
She turned toward me, bridging the gap between us. “It is....beautiful, Victor. It is one of the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen,” she told me, her voice ringing with excitement.
“You are an art lover?”
A voice, an old man’s voice came from behind me. “Emily! Where have you been?”
The young woman tightened up, her hands down to her waist, her head looking to the ground as if waiting to be reprimanded.
“I am sorry, I just needed to get some air. I....”
The man was impeccably dressed, probably in his mid fifties with short, partially gray auburn hair neatly combed back. The formality of his dress was overshadowed by his rigid authoritarian stride. “What would your father say if I allowed you to wander about unescorted?”
“I am not alone. Victor....”
He gave me a disapproving glance with his sharp eyes. “Well, in any case, it is time that we return. You have a very important day tomorrow.”
With this, he offered his arm. She took it without another word.
Emily looked back, our eyes met, and in them I recognized a great sadness and longing, which I knew well.
They turned away. I watched her sculpted back as she slipped away from me like a beautiful dream upon waking. I stood for some time, alone with my painting, darkening skies and the hissing of the ceaseless waves.
*
For several days I remained vexed by this woman, staring at my unfinished painting. I pushed back the silence of my home with a filled glass merlot.
This was to be the most important time in my career. In three weeks, a collection of my work would be on display in a local gallery.
When I next visited, William the curator, grew concerned by my sudden lack of vitality. He inquired , “Are you well, Vincent? You aren’t overworking yourself are you?”
“No, I am just a little nervous about the show.”
“You will do fine, Victor. You are one of the most promising young artists that I know of,” he reassured me.
We discussed the upcoming show and until something unexpected happened. As if my heart’s prayers had been answered, I saw her in the very gallery in which I was to display my work! From that sculpted back alone she was unmistakable. Again, she was accompanied by the arrogant older man who had brushed me aside like a vagrant.
I inquired to William, “Who is the young woman?”
“She arrived about a week ago, her name is Emily Lawson. I understand she comes from a wealthy family of bankers in Indiana.”
“And the man is....”
“Dr. Charles Farthington, one of the best surgeons in the country. He is an old friend of the Lawson family. They have sent the young lady to meet with the good doctor and his colleagues at the hospital.”
“Is she ill?”
“I don’t know. The doctor refuses to discuss her with anyone outside the hospital. He is very protective of her.....
She is beautiful isn’t she?” And dropping his voice to nearly a whisper he added, “It’s hard to believe that she is unspoken for, Victor.”
William told me that she was staying at one of the finer hotels in town and wished me well on my upcoming show, which I had forgotten all about.
*
I made a point of watching the Regency hotel throughout the early evening hours.
When Dr. Farthington’s black carriage arrived to drop Emily off, I saw that she was alone in the back of it. Taking my chance I quickly walked toward the entrance before her.
“Emily....” I called.
She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, smiling at our chance meeting.
“Victor....”
I held up the covered painting. ‘I’ve finished it, Emily. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Despite her beauty, she seemed unaccustomed to flattery, looking away to hide her smile.
“You have quite a talent, Victor. I’ll bet that you can make....almost anything seem beautiful,” she said, the smile fading from her face.
“I want you to have this,” I insisted.
“But you must have spent so much time painting it, I can’t take it from you,” she argued.
“Before I saw you on the beach, this painting was nothing, Emily. It was only another pitiful attempt to capture a fleeting moment without meaning or purpose,” I said as I put the canvass into her small hands. “But now, it is truly finished. With you,” I said as I looked intently into her deep blue eyes, “It has meaning.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Tomorrow night, I shall ask for your company at dinner. Say yes....”
*
Days passed, we dined and walked the shore together.
Emily told me of her love of art, and poetry, which was her obsession. She was never without pen and paper should inspiration strike her.
It seemed that she had spent a lifetime absorbing the works of Keats. She was seduced by his vivid, romantic imagery, like paintings of thoughts. I wondered how such a young girl of nineteen could have honed such literary sensibilities, as if she had been shut in a room with nothing but classics her whole life.
We talked so easily, as if the two of us had always known one another. We behaved as children, living only in the moment. I felt a real appreciation for life once more in my soul.
She spoke very little of the reason for her coming to New Port, and would not discuss the particulars of her medical condition. She would only say that he would be the only one in the world who could help her, and no more would she tell.
Then came the last night the two of us were alone together. I’d like to remember her that way, the soft lunar light bathing her fair skin in mystical glow as she flawlessly recited from memory the major works of Keats.
The time had long passed ceased to be respectable, we parted with a soft touching of our lips and a long gaze as we walked silently to her hotel.
We promised to meet again the following day, and between us were promises unspoken, those of the most binding commitment.
If only that would have been how it ended, or if even fate had taken us away from one another, then I could have held onto that memory of her.
But the lord would not suffer to bless my heart with even that.
No, this dream was to end as a nightmare.
*
by L. Greqoh
I’ll never forget the day I met her, she whose face still haunts my dreams. It was a cool spring evening in New Port, Oregon. I labored behind my easel on the beach, trying to capture in oil the beauty of the coastline at sunset. My canvass was nearly finished, but it felt empty.
There comes a point in an artist’s life where his soul is no longer stirred by deep cerulean skies. When fiery altocumulus clouds no longer ascend like stairways into heaven, but are bereft of inspiration, mundane phantoms that pass on pointlessly. In time, we grow deaf to the roar of ancient tides, they cease to cause reflection in a time worn soul. Snow capped peaks no longer command awe, but mock at our insignificant stature.
A lonely life of academic aesthetic contemplation had proven pointless and to the hunger in my heart. The silence in my home was no longer an asset to my artistic drive, but an unbearable chill to my soul.
I let the brush slip from my fingers and fall to the ground. Unable to push back these feelings any longer, I prepared to pack my things and leave. It was then that I saw her.... She walked slowly to the water, spreading out a yellow blanket. I watched her sit in solemn contemplation of the roaring waves. A long modest white dress concealed her figure. Her petite form revealed itself underneath as the fabric rippled in the wind.
I found myself fascinated by her jet black hair, the way it fell down her back like strands of swarthy silk glistening before the dazzling sun, the way it danced in the winds revealing the flawless oval structure of her face, her high cheeks and strong noble brow.
At once, I retrieved my brush and began to paint her onto my canvass. For a while perhaps, she did not notice my intense fascination with her. This was well, for I desired to capture her as she was then at that moment.
I noticed the young woman began talking to herself. A look of hopelessness spread across her face. Then, like a startled deer, she turned and faced me. She saw the easel and the pallet in my hand. I suppose she was greatly flattered by my interest for she did not move for nearly an hour, merely smiling knowingly as if to give her consent to my artistic voyeurism. Her mood was much improved.
I could have painted her forever, but she appeared to grow ill. She held her hand over her lower stomach began talking to herself again. Her countenance grew sullen and she rose to leave.
I walked to her, announcing my presence while standing respectfully back. “Forgive my impulsiveness. My name is Victor, Victor Blackwood.”
She clutched the blanket and shrank back like a shy girl, her azure eyes wide and unsure.
I took a step back and continued, “I am an artist. I come here often to paint the coast. I believed an Oregon sunset was the most beautiful thing in the world.... until this evening....when I saw you.”
Despite herself, a warm smile arose across her flushed face as she looked to the ground and turned her head. “Mr. Blackwood....”
“Victor.....”
“You flatter me, Mr. Blackwood, but I really need to be going.”
“Please....one thing I ask,” I said as I began to walk back toward my easel. “Come and see....You have inspired me this morning Ms....”
She did not give her name, but after pausing for several seconds, she followed me to the canvass.
“All right, Victor.”
She examined the painting with a look of fascination. For several minutes she examined it without speaking, her wide, child like eyes drank in every detail.
“I thought that it was finished this morning, but something was lacking,” I explained as I pointed to the partially finished figure of a young girl on the golden sand. “Now I know what it was.”
She turned toward me, bridging the gap between us. “It is....beautiful, Victor. It is one of the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen,” she told me, her voice ringing with excitement.
“You are an art lover?”
A voice, an old man’s voice came from behind me. “Emily! Where have you been?”
The young woman tightened up, her hands down to her waist, her head looking to the ground as if waiting to be reprimanded.
“I am sorry, I just needed to get some air. I....”
The man was impeccably dressed, probably in his mid fifties with short, partially gray auburn hair neatly combed back. The formality of his dress was overshadowed by his rigid authoritarian stride. “What would your father say if I allowed you to wander about unescorted?”
“I am not alone. Victor....”
He gave me a disapproving glance with his sharp eyes. “Well, in any case, it is time that we return. You have a very important day tomorrow.”
With this, he offered his arm. She took it without another word.
Emily looked back, our eyes met, and in them I recognized a great sadness and longing, which I knew well.
They turned away. I watched her sculpted back as she slipped away from me like a beautiful dream upon waking. I stood for some time, alone with my painting, darkening skies and the hissing of the ceaseless waves.
*
For several days I remained vexed by this woman, staring at my unfinished painting. I pushed back the silence of my home with a filled glass merlot.
This was to be the most important time in my career. In three weeks, a collection of my work would be on display in a local gallery.
When I next visited, William the curator, grew concerned by my sudden lack of vitality. He inquired , “Are you well, Vincent? You aren’t overworking yourself are you?”
“No, I am just a little nervous about the show.”
“You will do fine, Victor. You are one of the most promising young artists that I know of,” he reassured me.
We discussed the upcoming show and until something unexpected happened. As if my heart’s prayers had been answered, I saw her in the very gallery in which I was to display my work! From that sculpted back alone she was unmistakable. Again, she was accompanied by the arrogant older man who had brushed me aside like a vagrant.
I inquired to William, “Who is the young woman?”
“She arrived about a week ago, her name is Emily Lawson. I understand she comes from a wealthy family of bankers in Indiana.”
“And the man is....”
“Dr. Charles Farthington, one of the best surgeons in the country. He is an old friend of the Lawson family. They have sent the young lady to meet with the good doctor and his colleagues at the hospital.”
“Is she ill?”
“I don’t know. The doctor refuses to discuss her with anyone outside the hospital. He is very protective of her.....
She is beautiful isn’t she?” And dropping his voice to nearly a whisper he added, “It’s hard to believe that she is unspoken for, Victor.”
William told me that she was staying at one of the finer hotels in town and wished me well on my upcoming show, which I had forgotten all about.
*
I made a point of watching the Regency hotel throughout the early evening hours.
When Dr. Farthington’s black carriage arrived to drop Emily off, I saw that she was alone in the back of it. Taking my chance I quickly walked toward the entrance before her.
“Emily....” I called.
She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, smiling at our chance meeting.
“Victor....”
I held up the covered painting. ‘I’ve finished it, Emily. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Despite her beauty, she seemed unaccustomed to flattery, looking away to hide her smile.
“You have quite a talent, Victor. I’ll bet that you can make....almost anything seem beautiful,” she said, the smile fading from her face.
“I want you to have this,” I insisted.
“But you must have spent so much time painting it, I can’t take it from you,” she argued.
“Before I saw you on the beach, this painting was nothing, Emily. It was only another pitiful attempt to capture a fleeting moment without meaning or purpose,” I said as I put the canvass into her small hands. “But now, it is truly finished. With you,” I said as I looked intently into her deep blue eyes, “It has meaning.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Tomorrow night, I shall ask for your company at dinner. Say yes....”
*
Days passed, we dined and walked the shore together.
Emily told me of her love of art, and poetry, which was her obsession. She was never without pen and paper should inspiration strike her.
It seemed that she had spent a lifetime absorbing the works of Keats. She was seduced by his vivid, romantic imagery, like paintings of thoughts. I wondered how such a young girl of nineteen could have honed such literary sensibilities, as if she had been shut in a room with nothing but classics her whole life.
We talked so easily, as if the two of us had always known one another. We behaved as children, living only in the moment. I felt a real appreciation for life once more in my soul.
She spoke very little of the reason for her coming to New Port, and would not discuss the particulars of her medical condition. She would only say that he would be the only one in the world who could help her, and no more would she tell.
Then came the last night the two of us were alone together. I’d like to remember her that way, the soft lunar light bathing her fair skin in mystical glow as she flawlessly recited from memory the major works of Keats.
The time had long passed ceased to be respectable, we parted with a soft touching of our lips and a long gaze as we walked silently to her hotel.
We promised to meet again the following day, and between us were promises unspoken, those of the most binding commitment.
If only that would have been how it ended, or if even fate had taken us away from one another, then I could have held onto that memory of her.
But the lord would not suffer to bless my heart with even that.
No, this dream was to end as a nightmare.
*