A Portrait at Dusk
"The sorrow of transience no longer poisons life itself; life has become an art..." (from "India Discovered", by John Keay)
The two of them were sitting by the brook on a piece of rock. In front of the artist was an easel which held a sheet of white parchment, while his right hand was giving the finishing touches with a paint brush. Occasionally he would look up at the one sitting in front of him, and give a slightly darker taper to the eye lashes, or make a corner of the lips more rounded, or some such detail. This was their third sitting, and it was coming to an end, and so was the portrait. In the west the sun had sunk perceptibly. Clouds hovered over the horizon, while birds clamorously made their way across the sky homewards. A slight breeze had started to blow, which ruffled her luxuriant tresses and made them quiver, as if by an unseen hand. Time and again, without altering her position, she would look at the artist with pleading eyes to finish it quickly. Finally, when her patience began to wear thin, she said with a child like sulk, “How long you are taking! I’m getting tired.” She said this without disturbing either her position or her smile.
“Just wait awhile. I’m almost done. Some more patience.” Said the artist, as he tried to work the impetuous nature of her hair into his strokes. He was trying to make it as life like as possible. He was trying to make it as beautiful as she was. Not an easy task, but he was trying. Trying to be faithful to every line, every contour, every caprice of light and shade playing upon her face, giving definition to each other. For the last three days he had been working, and now his efforts were paying off. He saw that he was far surpassing himself. He’d never have thought it possible. When she had first approached him, he had refused outright. One look at her, and he could see that he was looking at something that no art could reproduce. He told her as much. But she said that she would wait for a change of mind, and then come. She left him in a swirl of confused thoughts. He thought about her. He kept thinking about her. Had he been right in his decision? After all, he was an artist, and he was supposed to capture and express the beauty that he saw around him, that he felt stirring in his soul at times, the beauty that was ephemeral, and to cast it into a form that was everlasting. He thought of the pure, innocent face, and her natural, unaffected grace. Why couldn’t his skill reproduce that beauty? Was it unworthy of it? Or was it that he did not have faith in himself? This was ironical, considering how much faith she had placed in him. It was precisely this faith which he did not want to break. She had looked sublime, beyond the reaches of art. By refusing it was as if he had broken the trust at the outset, and had distanced himself from her. But obviously she did not view it in such a light. Her reaction indicated that she had been expecting this beforehand, and so had not been surprised or cross, as evinced by her conviction that he would change his mind.
That night he had a strange dream. He dreamt that she appeared in front of him. As they started talking, however, under his very eyes she started undergoing a transformation. It was so subtle that at first he did not notice it. But when he did notice it, he could not help being disgusted. She was no longer beautiful. She had become bent and decayed, as if with age or some revolting disease. He could see that it was the same person, but so terribly changed that that was where the similarity ended. The voice, which had been so soft and reassuring before, was now little more than a croak. She tried maintaining her earlier poise, but her efforts were all too visible. She was shriveling up, horrible to look at, with the eyes sinking and becoming hollower, the cheeks drying up, her whole frame withering away with loathsome blemishes appearing all over and puss oozing from the scabs. She gave up at this stage. Folding her arms in supplication she sank to the ground and wept and kept repeating something in a barely recognizable voice, the voice that sounded like a frog’s croak. In this cracked, parched voice it was clear that she was begging something of him. He tried hard to make out what she was trying to say, but her voice was too unintelligible. She was helpless and pitiable to see, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, and all trace of dignity and self respect lost in her desperate appeals for the incoherent wish. Out of a sense of duty, he made some more attempts to make out what it was she wanted him to do, but they were futile. He gave up and laughed in despair and a perverted sense of peace. He had seen with his own eyes sublime beauty- for the sake of which one would be readily willing to lay down one’s life- and terrible ugliness- compared to which dying was a far better proposition- cohabiting the one and the same body. Nothing in this world was sublime, and neither was anything ugly. His art was meaningless, and so was his life, and so was her beauty. One day his hands would quiver, too feeble to hold a brush. His strokes would become infantile scribbles. And she, who had come to him, would fare no better. She too would wither away like a flower and disappear, her beauty buried in the dust. The artist's inspiration and the artist would be dead.
When he awoke the next morning he was filled with a terrible regret for all the thoughts that had entered his mind the previous night.. He wanted to obliterate the vision of the night and wanted to possess himself of her beauty by seeing her again. He felt it foolish to give up, in spite of everything. All day long he wandered on the paths that led from his house and which went through the hilly meadows. Around him the birds were twittering playfully and the flowers had emerged from their buds in various hues. He walked like a man possessed, blind to all this, seeing everything with unseeing eyes. He really wished to be with her again. At one point he stopped, and ran his fingers absent mindedly around a red flower. He was engaged in this for some time, when a movement somewhere to his right arrested his attention. It looked like the swirl of a skirt. He turned instinctively in that direction, and to his amazement saw her approaching. How dumbstruck he had felt! She was coming towards him with slow, measured steps, with her characteristic grace. As she came nearer, she flashed him a smile that dazzled his very soul and swept away the vision of the night in a decisive stroke. A sense of joy and peace crept through him. He felt warm and happy inside. No irrational feelings, no lecherous or sentimental passions, just a feeling of utmost calm, and a desire to capture this moment forever.
“I knew you would change your mind.” She said. “I knew too that you would regret your haste. So, here I am, as I promised!”
As she said this she partly spread out her arms with a slight flourish, as if to convince him of her presence. She looked like a goddess for a split second- if only this split second could become an eternity! He would have burrowed into its warmth forever!
They got to talking, and he repeated his previous arguments, though it was obvious that was doing so just to maintain continuity. So, after the customary coaxings and misgivings, they found themselves on the rock by the side of the brook, and now finally after three days of untiring efforts, the portrait was about to be finished. How beautiful she was looking ! his heart could not help giving a slight flutter each time he raised his eyes towards her. And each time he looked at her and then back again towards the sketch in front of him, he would feel more satisfied. This was clearly evinced in his eyes, which shone with the light of self satisfaction. If only she would express her admiration when he showed it to her! How blessed he would feel! After all, wouldn’t the moon feel happy if the sun were to say that it reflected the sun’s light so well? But the moon has a dark side…
He was giving the finishing touches to the portrait. Meanwhile, the sky had become darker, and storm clouds had gathered in the western part of the sky, making the light very feeble indeed. Intermittent gusts of wind were blowing across the hills. He stepped back to give the portrait a final look of satisfaction, and then told her that it was over. She broke her immobility with a quiet and graceful movement, and her eyes told of the implicit trust she held for him. She was about to come towards the easel to have a look, when he suddenly stopped her. “No! Wait! Let me take it out and hand it over to you.” The fact was that the easel was so old and cracked that he felt it to be a most unworthy setting for the portrait: and what better setting than the arms that were about to hold it! She laughed indulgently at his whim and waited with outstretched arm for the portrait. Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky, while distant sounds of thunder rumbled portentously. He passed his trembling fingers over the hooks which fastened the parchment on to the wooden frame and, carefully taking out the portrait, extended his trembling arm towards hers. The moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived! The moment that would judge him as an artist. With bated breath he waited for her to take it from his fingers. She extended her arms towards his and in the next instant it would have been in her hands. For a fleeting moment, prior to this long awaited moment, the sheet was in contact with both their fingers, he beginning to loosen his grip on it, and she beginning to tighten hers. And in this fleeting moment, it happened. The gusts of wind, which had been blowing sporadically, apparently without malice, seemed suddenly to have gathered together all their strength for this especial purpose, and with a terrible howl shrieked down upon the place where they were standing. The sheet that had been supported lightly in their fingers rushed headlong without warning and went spinning and careening across the meadows, along with the wind, sometimes cart wheeling on the ground, sometimes spinning wildly in the air, but always going away from him, as he ran after it. Sometimes it would slow down, rest awhile, dance enticingly, but as soon as it came tantalizingly within reach, away it would go with greater urgency, mocking all his efforts. This process occurred repeatedly, until finally the wind flagged, and the paper went forward under its own impetus, slowing down and coming to a stop in a ditch full of dirty water. He hurried on, frantic and out of breath, almost in tears. When he reached there, he thrust his hand into the ditch, and even before he had lifted it, he knew that it was ruined. What it was before could not now be recognized in this piece of wreckage he held in his hand. The wind and the water had wrinkled it beyond recognition. The dust and the mud had filled it with dirty spots. The pencil and charcoal strokes were now little more than random smudges. Still, the semblance of a face, though horribly ugly, could be made out staring madly towards him.
He headed back, and found her waiting anxiously for him. He looked at her, then at the paper in his hand. Then with a barely concealed expression of hilarity, he looked at her again. Maybe something in his eyes warned her; she turned round to flee, but his fingers closed round her wrist in a clasp of iron. He then dragged her in a vice like grip towards the very spot they had been sitting on and pinned her helplessly against the rock. Wriggling, screaming, she did her utmost to break free, but he was filled with the strength of a madman. Holding the ruined piece of art in the same hand with which he had her pinned, he began to work on her face with the same calmness and patience he had displayed in painting the portrait. Calmly and deliberately he started working, with the fullest concentration, employing whatever he could lay his hands upon- jagged pieces of stone, the shards of her broken bangles, his bare hands, sometimes even his nails, and began to transfer the likeness from the paper on to her face now. All this time she was screaming, begging for something in a voice that no longer had any strength, but he was too busy to pay any heed; even if he wasn’t her voice was too feeble and dry for anything coherent to be made out. After a while the voice became silent, but he kept working, sometimes like a painter, sometimes like a sculptor, faithfully reproducing the features of the ruined portrait on to the face. Now that there was no resistance from her, he was able to work in peace, and before long, his mission was accomplished. The sun had long since set and it had started raining. The water fell in an unending stream with a terrible fury. Great flashes of lightning and peals of thunder burst through the sky. He looked from the paper to the face, and tears filled his eyes. But the semblance was complete.
“Just wait awhile. I’m almost done. Some more patience.” Said the artist, as he tried to work the impetuous nature of her hair into his strokes. He was trying to make it as life like as possible. He was trying to make it as beautiful as she was. Not an easy task, but he was trying. Trying to be faithful to every line, every contour, every caprice of light and shade playing upon her face, giving definition to each other. For the last three days he had been working, and now his efforts were paying off. He saw that he was far surpassing himself. He’d never have thought it possible. When she had first approached him, he had refused outright. One look at her, and he could see that he was looking at something that no art could reproduce. He told her as much. But she said that she would wait for a change of mind, and then come. She left him in a swirl of confused thoughts. He thought about her. He kept thinking about her. Had he been right in his decision? After all, he was an artist, and he was supposed to capture and express the beauty that he saw around him, that he felt stirring in his soul at times, the beauty that was ephemeral, and to cast it into a form that was everlasting. He thought of the pure, innocent face, and her natural, unaffected grace. Why couldn’t his skill reproduce that beauty? Was it unworthy of it? Or was it that he did not have faith in himself? This was ironical, considering how much faith she had placed in him. It was precisely this faith which he did not want to break. She had looked sublime, beyond the reaches of art. By refusing it was as if he had broken the trust at the outset, and had distanced himself from her. But obviously she did not view it in such a light. Her reaction indicated that she had been expecting this beforehand, and so had not been surprised or cross, as evinced by her conviction that he would change his mind.
That night he had a strange dream. He dreamt that she appeared in front of him. As they started talking, however, under his very eyes she started undergoing a transformation. It was so subtle that at first he did not notice it. But when he did notice it, he could not help being disgusted. She was no longer beautiful. She had become bent and decayed, as if with age or some revolting disease. He could see that it was the same person, but so terribly changed that that was where the similarity ended. The voice, which had been so soft and reassuring before, was now little more than a croak. She tried maintaining her earlier poise, but her efforts were all too visible. She was shriveling up, horrible to look at, with the eyes sinking and becoming hollower, the cheeks drying up, her whole frame withering away with loathsome blemishes appearing all over and puss oozing from the scabs. She gave up at this stage. Folding her arms in supplication she sank to the ground and wept and kept repeating something in a barely recognizable voice, the voice that sounded like a frog’s croak. In this cracked, parched voice it was clear that she was begging something of him. He tried hard to make out what she was trying to say, but her voice was too unintelligible. She was helpless and pitiable to see, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, and all trace of dignity and self respect lost in her desperate appeals for the incoherent wish. Out of a sense of duty, he made some more attempts to make out what it was she wanted him to do, but they were futile. He gave up and laughed in despair and a perverted sense of peace. He had seen with his own eyes sublime beauty- for the sake of which one would be readily willing to lay down one’s life- and terrible ugliness- compared to which dying was a far better proposition- cohabiting the one and the same body. Nothing in this world was sublime, and neither was anything ugly. His art was meaningless, and so was his life, and so was her beauty. One day his hands would quiver, too feeble to hold a brush. His strokes would become infantile scribbles. And she, who had come to him, would fare no better. She too would wither away like a flower and disappear, her beauty buried in the dust. The artist's inspiration and the artist would be dead.
When he awoke the next morning he was filled with a terrible regret for all the thoughts that had entered his mind the previous night.. He wanted to obliterate the vision of the night and wanted to possess himself of her beauty by seeing her again. He felt it foolish to give up, in spite of everything. All day long he wandered on the paths that led from his house and which went through the hilly meadows. Around him the birds were twittering playfully and the flowers had emerged from their buds in various hues. He walked like a man possessed, blind to all this, seeing everything with unseeing eyes. He really wished to be with her again. At one point he stopped, and ran his fingers absent mindedly around a red flower. He was engaged in this for some time, when a movement somewhere to his right arrested his attention. It looked like the swirl of a skirt. He turned instinctively in that direction, and to his amazement saw her approaching. How dumbstruck he had felt! She was coming towards him with slow, measured steps, with her characteristic grace. As she came nearer, she flashed him a smile that dazzled his very soul and swept away the vision of the night in a decisive stroke. A sense of joy and peace crept through him. He felt warm and happy inside. No irrational feelings, no lecherous or sentimental passions, just a feeling of utmost calm, and a desire to capture this moment forever.
“I knew you would change your mind.” She said. “I knew too that you would regret your haste. So, here I am, as I promised!”
As she said this she partly spread out her arms with a slight flourish, as if to convince him of her presence. She looked like a goddess for a split second- if only this split second could become an eternity! He would have burrowed into its warmth forever!
They got to talking, and he repeated his previous arguments, though it was obvious that was doing so just to maintain continuity. So, after the customary coaxings and misgivings, they found themselves on the rock by the side of the brook, and now finally after three days of untiring efforts, the portrait was about to be finished. How beautiful she was looking ! his heart could not help giving a slight flutter each time he raised his eyes towards her. And each time he looked at her and then back again towards the sketch in front of him, he would feel more satisfied. This was clearly evinced in his eyes, which shone with the light of self satisfaction. If only she would express her admiration when he showed it to her! How blessed he would feel! After all, wouldn’t the moon feel happy if the sun were to say that it reflected the sun’s light so well? But the moon has a dark side…
He was giving the finishing touches to the portrait. Meanwhile, the sky had become darker, and storm clouds had gathered in the western part of the sky, making the light very feeble indeed. Intermittent gusts of wind were blowing across the hills. He stepped back to give the portrait a final look of satisfaction, and then told her that it was over. She broke her immobility with a quiet and graceful movement, and her eyes told of the implicit trust she held for him. She was about to come towards the easel to have a look, when he suddenly stopped her. “No! Wait! Let me take it out and hand it over to you.” The fact was that the easel was so old and cracked that he felt it to be a most unworthy setting for the portrait: and what better setting than the arms that were about to hold it! She laughed indulgently at his whim and waited with outstretched arm for the portrait. Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky, while distant sounds of thunder rumbled portentously. He passed his trembling fingers over the hooks which fastened the parchment on to the wooden frame and, carefully taking out the portrait, extended his trembling arm towards hers. The moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived! The moment that would judge him as an artist. With bated breath he waited for her to take it from his fingers. She extended her arms towards his and in the next instant it would have been in her hands. For a fleeting moment, prior to this long awaited moment, the sheet was in contact with both their fingers, he beginning to loosen his grip on it, and she beginning to tighten hers. And in this fleeting moment, it happened. The gusts of wind, which had been blowing sporadically, apparently without malice, seemed suddenly to have gathered together all their strength for this especial purpose, and with a terrible howl shrieked down upon the place where they were standing. The sheet that had been supported lightly in their fingers rushed headlong without warning and went spinning and careening across the meadows, along with the wind, sometimes cart wheeling on the ground, sometimes spinning wildly in the air, but always going away from him, as he ran after it. Sometimes it would slow down, rest awhile, dance enticingly, but as soon as it came tantalizingly within reach, away it would go with greater urgency, mocking all his efforts. This process occurred repeatedly, until finally the wind flagged, and the paper went forward under its own impetus, slowing down and coming to a stop in a ditch full of dirty water. He hurried on, frantic and out of breath, almost in tears. When he reached there, he thrust his hand into the ditch, and even before he had lifted it, he knew that it was ruined. What it was before could not now be recognized in this piece of wreckage he held in his hand. The wind and the water had wrinkled it beyond recognition. The dust and the mud had filled it with dirty spots. The pencil and charcoal strokes were now little more than random smudges. Still, the semblance of a face, though horribly ugly, could be made out staring madly towards him.
He headed back, and found her waiting anxiously for him. He looked at her, then at the paper in his hand. Then with a barely concealed expression of hilarity, he looked at her again. Maybe something in his eyes warned her; she turned round to flee, but his fingers closed round her wrist in a clasp of iron. He then dragged her in a vice like grip towards the very spot they had been sitting on and pinned her helplessly against the rock. Wriggling, screaming, she did her utmost to break free, but he was filled with the strength of a madman. Holding the ruined piece of art in the same hand with which he had her pinned, he began to work on her face with the same calmness and patience he had displayed in painting the portrait. Calmly and deliberately he started working, with the fullest concentration, employing whatever he could lay his hands upon- jagged pieces of stone, the shards of her broken bangles, his bare hands, sometimes even his nails, and began to transfer the likeness from the paper on to her face now. All this time she was screaming, begging for something in a voice that no longer had any strength, but he was too busy to pay any heed; even if he wasn’t her voice was too feeble and dry for anything coherent to be made out. After a while the voice became silent, but he kept working, sometimes like a painter, sometimes like a sculptor, faithfully reproducing the features of the ruined portrait on to the face. Now that there was no resistance from her, he was able to work in peace, and before long, his mission was accomplished. The sun had long since set and it had started raining. The water fell in an unending stream with a terrible fury. Great flashes of lightning and peals of thunder burst through the sky. He looked from the paper to the face, and tears filled his eyes. But the semblance was complete.
posted by changingsun at
11:30 AM
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