Chapter 62 #2
Before she and I met, I had begun to be acclaimed among the critics, taken seriously, and publicized and honored as an up-and-coming artist. It happened quickly and unexpectedly, long before I was ready to handle so much attention.
I will not trouble you with the story of my regrettable ascendancy other than to say that I was never more cursed than when I bowed down to the enslaving idol of fame.
The higher I rose in prominence — so quickly, so visibly — the farther the girl fell behind. I know now she had no desire to follow me, no interest in the “supremely interesting man” — one critic’s description — that I had become.
We were both committed to pursue ideals of beauty and truth in our vocation.
Or so we both said.
Her commitment was sincere, real, and unshakable.
Mine, at the first whisper of fame and celebrity, quivered and fell.
Being the self-obsessed young man that I was, I would have been very pleased if every spotlight in the universe had been fixed on me.
My arrogance, though disguised, must have been an ugly, hideous presence to one of her sensitive, selfless heart.
The girl from Golden continued to draw and paint, working harder and harder to improve her skills, and more and more happily it seemed, even without the notice of others.
There was love in her art, in the motive, in the pursuit, and in the final result.
It was a love that allowed her to be content with the little, the nameless, the unremembered.
At some point, her refusal to be impressed by my greatness became a sore spot, but only in me.
I grew resentful. She grew weary. She never ceased to love me — she adored me — but I wanted more; I wanted her to worship me.
She would never have dreamt of such a thing.
Doing so, I now realize, would have required her not to love me.
She was too substantial for such a blasphemy.
She was anchored to something immovable.
I was adrift on fickle waves of ambition.
And then, out of the blue, without warning, she was gone.
The last time we were together, we shared a night at our favorite place beside the sea.
She sat quietly as I went on and on about my great success, my great plans, my rising star.
How I must have grieved her. We had a meal for the gods and music and romance.
We slept that night to the sound of the Mediterranean.
When she cried at the beauty of it, I was not alarmed.
Her eyes were often tearful at such moments.
I know now, though, she was telling me goodbye.
A week later, without a word, she left. It was the last time I ever saw her, though her face has been in my mind ever since.
When I learned that she had returned to her home in Golden, I wrote, desperate to hear from her. I was certain she would return to me. And why wouldn’t she? Who would not want to walk in the shadow of the meteoric Zila?
This was long before all the ways that we communicate now. I was hostage somewhat to the slow movement of handwritten letters across the ocean. I wrote to her and then waited and waited for a reply.
Her silence was maddening.
When my patience was exhausted, I began making plans to visit her — unannounced — in Golden.
My agent, in an effort to be protective of my interests, hired a consultant in Golden, a Mr. Ponder, to learn more about the girl and her family before I traveled there.
He reported to me that, not long after returning home from Madrid, she had eloped with an old boyfriend. And also that she was the mother of a little boy.
I was stunned, crushed, angry. How could it be? I had so many questions. What should I do?
At the urging of my agent, who saw my very career in jeopardy, I canceled my trip, threw myself into my work, and tried to put her out of my mind.
I never could.
I never have.
To this day, I don’t believe I ever finished a painting or drawing without hoping she would see it.
Hers, above all others, was the only applause I ever really wanted.
And she (along with my dear Tita), she alone has remained the love of my life.
When I first saw Minnette’s portrait at the Chalice, and then met her in person at the very first bestowal, I saw again the eyes of the girl from Golden.
Minette’s grandmother. Gammy.
Your mother.
For several years, I wondered about the little boy. Could he possibly be my son? Would she not want me to know?
But again, there was plenty in my life and work to distract my mind from those questions. And two facts kept me in my place: She was married, and I was famous.
Still, a thousand times I considered reaching out to her.
Imagine my complete surprise when, years later, I received a letter from her little boy.
Actually, there were two letters, one from him and one from her. My head spun when I recognized who they were from, and my hopes leapt at the prospect of being reunited with her somehow. Maybe something had happened in her marriage? A death? A divorce?
But there was no such news.
In fact, she told me she was “a happy mother, a cared-for wife, and a blessed woman.” There were few details. She stated that she had married “a very good and gracious man” within weeks of returning home from Madrid.
Most of all, I think she wanted me to know about you.
Her letter is enclosed.
As you will see when you read it, your mother implored me, in the strongest possible words (but not unkindly), never to write or pursue her.
I honored her request until the day of her death, though I have doubted, even grieved over, that decision many times.
I never replied to her letter.
I did, of course, reply to yours.
I have often wondered, why did she write to me at all? What did she expect of me?
I will never know the answer to those questions, but I am forever grateful that her letter, the very few words she sent me, brought me as an old man to Golden to spend part of my final years with you.
Asher took a deep breath as he processed the truth of what he was reading.
Theo. His father?
He gazed at the portrait of himself and then lifted his eyes to the glass doors overlooking Broadway. Through them, he could see the oaks of the Promenade and sense the long shadows of the dying day.
He resumed reading.
Asher, when I first visited your studio, we talked about one of the paintings in your entrance hallway, the one you once described to me as your mother’s favorite, the framed landscape of the tree on the hillside with the person standing at the easel.
You told me that you have always wondered about that painting. I will tell you the story.
It depicts a field near a cottage in Biscopo, a small town on the coast of Spain.
Shortly after your mother and I met at the Prado, another artist-in-residence, a Spaniard, took us to Biscopo, us and a dozen others, to study seascape and sky.
He was from the old school of realism. He assured us we would never see a place like it.
“It will crush you as artists. It will tempt you to burn your brushes, slice your canvasses, and declare yourself defeated. It will show you how paltry your art is, how meager your talent. It will be the pinnacle to which you will aspire for the rest of your creative lives.”
He was a bit melodramatic, perhaps, but his description of the place was not overstated in the least.
It was there and then, in Biscopo, that your mother and I first talked at length, painted together, and fell in love.
Months later, one holiday, she and I returned, rented a small cottage on the cliffs, and painted in the open air during the daylight hours.
At night we would walk to the field with the tree, spread out our red blanket, and sleep beneath the stars.
We returned there a number of times.
It was our Elysian Field. I did a painting of it — “Me, Painting You, Painting,” the one in your studio — and gave it to her as a birthday gift.
I also gave her an opal necklace on a gold chain, a necklace my mother and grandmother had worn.
The heart-shaped opal, we agreed, was the Mediterranean night in miniature — ocean, sky, stars, moonlight, seashore.
We called that piece of jewelry the “Evening of Biscopo.” It was my pledge to marry her someday.
And yes, as I painted her standing in that field, she painted me, facing her, the vast ocean and open sky at my back.
I close.
As strange as it might sound, Asher, especially at this, my happiest season of life, I long for heaven.
It might still be many years away, but I think of it often as the low sun and long shadows lengthen over my days.
Some laugh, of course, at the notion — many of my artistic peers, and yours, find my hope positively naive and fanciful — but beauty, throughout my life, has always seemed to hint at something more.
I long, as one has said, not just to see it but to verily become part of it.
Enough of this standing on the outside looking in.
Soon, if the Grand Artist has spoken truthfully, soon enough, the door will open for me.
Funny how this old hand, once so strong and capable and steady, begins to tremor in these dwindling years.
It has covered ten thousand canvasses that stretch around the world.
It has served me well. But never has its work been more impossible, and more important, than in writing these words of my affection for you.
I am forever thankful for these days, when a chalice light and broad filled my soul with a peace and joy I never dreamt possible.
I am a grateful old man.
A proud father.
Press on, dear boy.
Seek truth.
Make beauty.
Live well.
I love you, my son.
Till heaven,
Theo
Asher slumped, lowered the letter to his lap, rested his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes.
He sat in the early evening dark as a convergence of grief, regret, confusion, and love ran through him.
He had no idea how long he had been there when he finally picked up the second letter. He wiped his eyes to read.