Which Painted Man Am I?

I felt like I was being watched.

From my own easel it stared at me. The eyes were still wet with the last coat of varnish I applied the night before. I wasn't sure what I was thinking with that expression. It was like something between curiosity and accusation--- but there it is. Fixed and breathing in the northern light of my studio. As I looked at it, I could smell the linseed heavy in the air. I liked it. I liked being an oil painter. All the smells are rich and maybe a touch romantic.

It makes me nostalgic.

I digress.

I put my brush down and stepped away from the painting. Oh, I guess I should tell you. It was a self-portrait.

Let me explain.

Most artists go through a period of discovery. They want to know who they are, so they set up a mirror beside the easel, positioned so they can still paint while seeing themselves, without moving too often or much. It's the only way to do it if they want to paint from life.

Painting from life means an actual living, breathing person. Not a photo. I can't afford a model, so I guess I will have to do.

I hate my face.

But--- I know I need the challenge, and it was an opportunity to get to know myself again.

Every person goes on a path of discovery in their life. At this stage, my path was to figure out who I am. How do you define yourself? Surely not by what you do. Who are you? Especially after your spouse dies?

See--- after twenty years with someone, you kind of become ‘one’. You become joined. A couple. When half of that goes away, what are you?

Not a husband. Not a partner.

Single!

For a long time, I didn't like that word. Single sounds so angry in my ears. You--- just 'you.'

An individual--- alone.

And for some, being alone is hard. I got through it. I'm still 'me,' but I wonder who that is. So I paint. And right now I'm painting myself.

As a blasted portrait.

Golly, I hate my face.

Give me a puppy or a still life. At least they are pretty.

Okay, back to the painting. So--- after being at it for a few days, chasing my same, stupid expression every night, I realized the face in the mirror was never the same. I thought the mirror was lying to me.

One evening, trying to paint more--- oh look, tired man.

Another--- angry man.

Another--- regretful man.

The one who regretted too much. This man was full of questions:

Did I love you enough?

Did I treat you well? Did I put you first?

Did I help you through lonely times?

Did you know I was happy you were mine?

I know the mirror wasn't lying, really. I was painting back what the mirror reflected. I thought this would be fun. I even remember 'professor’ saying,

“A self-portrait is a study in honesty.”

Well, if that's what it's showing then I don't want to know. That face in the painting looked at me like--- well--- like I should've noticed something. What, I couldn't say. Maybe it was saying, while using my name, “Billy, you need to wake up now.”

“Okay, painted Billy.”

I was mocking it. But I called it Billy, too.

You see, sometimes I say my name aloud, since I don't hear it as often as I did. It's so I don't forget who I am.

Who is that?

Still trying to decide.

It's foolish, I know, but it helps. Talking to the painting feels less lonely than the quiet--- the silence that lives here now.

One night, I dreamed I was standing in front of my easel. The room wasn't my studio. Larger, like a cathedral. Bright light everywhere. Maybe it was made of light. Painted man spoke without moving his lips. “You left me unfinished.”

It made me wake up.

A few days passed. Painted man gave me doubts. Not just about myself, but maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn't finished yet. I started obsessing about the painting. With each new morning, I promised myself I would ignore it, but I found myself standing before it. I talked to it. It seemed to listen.

I'm pretty sure it changed--- ever so slightly.

Once, I caught my reflection in my jar of spirits. It was crystal clear after refilling it. My reflection was moving across its liquid surface,

I wasn't.

Sometimes, while I was dreaming, painted man walked through my studio. He ran his fingertips across the tables. Inspected my brushes like a twin interested in his other half.

“You've made me stronger than you,” painted man said.

“You're the shadow, not me.”

I didn't understand that when I woke up, but for some reason, it gave me more determination to make some changes.

I hated my stupid face--- a bit less.

I started making the corrections. Small things. A line here. A value shift there. I told myself I was adjusting tone and balance. Truth is, I was trying to keep up with what I saw changing in the dry paint. When I stepped away to get more coffee, returning once again, each time I found the portrait no longer matched my reflection. I knew I painted what I saw in the mirror, but painted man appeared younger than me. I have a friend at work who calls me old. Labels stick. So what I was seeing didn't fit. My eyes are more dull. I have sharp lines on my face. Painted man seemed alive, calm, and confident.

Huh?

A few nights passed. I needed a break from 'studying myself.' I sat in my comfortable chair, just looking at painted man in the corner.

“What are you?” I whispered. More to myself than anything. It's not like I expected an answer.

My lights in my studio are wonderful. In the evening I can dim them, making it soft--- quiet if needed. That night, painted man reflected in the glass of a window across from him. I could swear---

I saw him blink.

It kept me awake.

It took forever to get to morning. It was too silent except for the tick of cooling wood. Weird, I know, but that's how it felt. Just before dawn, I uncovered painted man. What can I say? It spooked me. I didn't want him crawling out of the canvas and replacing me or something. I watched horror. I know how they end.

Okay, so, I uncovered the painted man, and when I looked---

In the soft, beautiful dawn light, I saw something. It wasn't there before. I certainly didn't do it, but behind painted man, I saw a faint outline of an easel. It was my studio--- in miniature. Where someone was painting me.

In shock, I touched my fingertips to the canvas. It was dry.

For those who don't paint with oil, I will explain. Oil isn't like acrylic. It takes time for the oil to dry. Time has to pass and remove all the v.o.c's. Volatile, organic compounds---- impurities--- so it can become firm, and then harden.

I scratched my head. A bit spooked, I decided I needed to replace it. It was time for a new me.

I got new bars, linen, a staple gun, and gesso, and stretched a new canvas as I started the new painting. I felt calmer --- more at peace--- more gentle and forgiving. My hand trembled as I started. This was a new painted man. I would glance occasionally at the original. It made me feel like painted man was watching me.

That evening, after painting all day, I took the original painted man and compared the two. I could see myself in both. Each is different, but alike. As I continued to look, I noticed something peculiar. Original painted man looked content. I felt peace looking back at me.

I know my neighbors heard my music playing through the window. I love the oldies--- classical and jazz. Remember, I'm nostalgic. That morning, my studio would be still. On my easel, I left new painted man. He was serene, more like me now--- like he was gazing towards a distant horizon. Original painted man was lying on the floor. His painting was slashed. Clear through. No repairing. No looking back.

Of me?--- well, I can't say, but there is a jar of mineral spirits that sits on my taboret--- on the liquid surface, if one looks close enough --- you’ll see a faint pair of eyes.

They seem to watch.