Chapter 35
Once Theo had gained a circle of acquaintances along the Promenade, his daily strolls became peppered with short, unscheduled conversations. He learned that those visits were called “bumping into” or “running into” someone, though no such collisions were ever involved.
Such encounters typically occurred along the sidewalk or at places like the Chalice, where Theo might hear his name or feel a tap on the shoulder and turn to see a familiar face standing behind him. Brief, friendly exchanges would ensue and, on occasion, real conversation would bubble up.
Theo was not particularly comfortable with small talk.
His own active mind and colorful thoughts were so engaging that shallow babble felt at times like an intrusion, an interruption, a subtraction.
That said, and all because of his capacious spirit, sidewalk chats became a welcome part of his days.
He was a master at adapting the depth and tone of his comments to whomever he was with at a given moment.
Be it a twelve-year-old NASCAR fan, a one-armed bartender, a homeless woman, or a disgruntled accountant, he could connect.
And he always listened with interest. Genuine interest. Not fakery.
Still his preference was for weighty questions and thoughtful answers, a preference that was rarely obliged.
To compensate for the deficit, he could always resort to books.
On this occasion, Theo bumped into Asher at the Chalice. They were third and sixth in line, waiting to place their morning coffee orders, when Asher called his name. Theo moved back to fifth position in the line.
After greetings, Theo scanned the walls of the room and lowered his voice for the sake of privacy.
“Asher, in every face I detect sadness.”
A crease of curiosity formed between Asher’s eyes. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, it is subtle, and maybe it takes an old man — an expert in sadness — to see it, but it is there in every portrait, in some more than others. It is not gloomy or angry or even terribly obvious. It is like a weariness or an unmet longing or a disappointment; something we inherit from those who lived before us. But to these old eyes, it is in every face, the universal affliction. It is what gives such gravitas to your portraits and makes them so believable. Even when your subjects are smiling, the shadow of sadness is there. And so far, my meetings at the Fedder only confirm my suspicion.”
Asher mulled over Theo’s remarks.
“I never really thought of it that way. I certainly don’t do ‘sadness’ intentionally.”
“Ah,” Theo nodded his affirmation, “the mystery of art.”
Asher leaned in and spoke softly. “So, you’re an expert in sadness?”
Theo shrugged. “I suppose anyone as old as me could say the same. When we’re young, we’re usually too busy or too self-absorbed to see it, but by the time one is almost ninety, this world has beat the sadness into him quite deeply.
Every week there is some tragedy or reminder to keep it alive and well. ”
It was an unusual subject to discuss while standing in line for coffee. They placed their orders, stepped away from the counter, and continued talking.
“Theo, I appreciate that you’re such a sensitive man. You have a tender heart.”
“Not tender, Asher. Broken. My expertise in sadness is hard-earned. But I realize more and more that it is a gift. Living with sadness, accepting it, is easier than trying to pretend it isn’t there.
It is another of life’s great mysteries that sadness and joy can coexist so compatibly with one another.
In fact, I wonder if, on this side of heaven, either one can be complete without the other. ”
“You don’t strike me as a sad man, Theo. If you are, you’re good at disguising it.”
As if to prove the truth of Asher’s observation, Theo grinned. The resident sparkle in his eyes rose to the surface. Gleamed.
“Thank you. I hope it’s true. There is no virtue in advertising one’s sadness. But there is no wisdom in denying it either. And there is the beautiful possibility that great love can grow out of sadness if it is well-tended. Sadness can make us bitter or wise. We get to choose.”
“So, I do portraits of sadness?” Asher muttered to himself. “Is that a compliment?”
Theo chuckled. “It is a very high compliment, young man. A very high compliment indeed. Perhaps I am mistaken but, at some point, if we are wise, we must all confront our sadness, our brokenness, our disappointment. I am quite certain that your portraits help some people, in a very tender and courteous way, to ask themselves, maybe for the first time, ‘Who is that person? What do I know to be true, really true, about that face?’… Asher, we are masters at masking our sadness, but deep down inside, if we are honest, we know that there is an unsatisfied longing deep inside all of us. Your portraits invite people to be alone and quiet and truthful with themselves; to admit the longing and to discover the goodness in their sadness. Maybe?”
Asher held his peace, oblivious to the presence of customers around him. Narrowed eyes and wrinkled brow expressed his keen concentration.
“Asher, please don’t misunderstand me. You don’t draw portraits of sadness; you draw portraits of people. Sadness is only one part. There is beauty and gladness and playfulness too. It’s all there. In elegant proportion.”
Theo directed Asher’s attention to the portrait of a forty-ish young woman on the wall directly in front of them. She was smiling. “Do you see it, Asher? There is something, mostly in her eyes, that hints at something other than happiness. Do you agree?”
Asher knew the woman in the frame. He also knew her painful story.
“Theo, I wish I had an hour to talk about this more but I’ve got an appointment in just a few minutes.
Let’s talk about this at the studio one day next week.
But here’s a question before I go. What about the child?
That one there?” Asher pointed to the beaming face of a young boy.
Theo looked. “OK. That one: no sadness. But draw him again in thirty years.”