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A Paint-By-Number Masterpiece
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A Paint-By-Number Masterpiece |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart 
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I attended a funeral today, and the funeral home was a bit different from the ones I have frequented in the past years, past months. Many windows graced the walls, with light and beauty giving an inner peace and tranquility to the mourners. Roses graced the carpet in deep rubies and scarlet with sprigs of green interwoven against the beige background. Angel figurines of classic countenance sat on shelves and in corners. Angels were everywhere. I decided then and there, that should I still reside in this town when my time comes, this home would handle my arrangements. Peace and tranquility permeated the walls and draperies; the mood was light and welcoming. I would want to say goodbye to my loved ones between these walls. But this is not the substance of my tale. No. I was reminded of a long ago memory during the memorial service. A painting of Jesus hung on the wall over the casket, and this particular painting caught my eye, taking my thoughts back to the time of a paint-by-number masterpiece. Always, always my mother showed her talents in many ways. From designing patterns out of newspaper to make a stunning dress, to cooking meals fit for a king (which she could not taste due to a surgical dental injury that affected her taste buds). She could and should have been a concert pianist, and she could budget up a storm that would have saved the governmental economy, had someone been wise enough to assign her to the post. She had a friend who was a practicing Catholic. Because she held this friend's companionship in high regard, she wanted to prepare a special present for her upcoming birthday. One day Mother came home with a paint-by-number of Jesus. Mother had never dabbled in oils before. She thought perhaps if she could put her mind to it she would create a gift befitting the relationship with her friend. As my parents did not practice any religion with much zeal, they instead taught us children the way of the Word through action. I therefore recall being a little surprised at this choice of paintings. I picked up the box and noted that the "finished product" of all paint-by-numbers never looked as if they were created by a novice's hand. I also recalled my young and eager attempts to work with paint-by-numbers, and always the disgust I felt that they indeed looked childish. I wondered at how my mother's attempts would fare. Mom set up a TV tray in a corner of the living room that she could leave everything lie about and out where no one would upset it. She mentioned she would start about her project later that evening. Apparently we were all in bed when she started it, because the next day, when I got up, I spied a nose in the middle of the portrait. Nothing else, just the beginning of the most prominent part of a person's face. But you should have seen it! I don't know how many hours my mother had spent just on the nose, but you would have sworn it had been a dismembered part of a person's anatomy, so real and life-like it looked. As the days passed, my mother's work progressed to her satisfaction. I looked forward to waking each morning, for she did not compose in front of us, but only after we were in bed for the night. Each day I marveled at the appearance of the skin of the face, the turn of the ear, the beginning of His head of hair. For it was all cast as if three-dimensional, and as if one could reach out with a finger and touch warm skin. But it was when she began on His eyes that one could see the love of Jesus, the compassion of His soul. Somehow my mother had an angel guiding her brush, it was that much of a miracle. Finally, she was done, she placed the small canvas on the mantle piece to fully cure and dry. That is when I noticed the most strange. For anywhere in our living room, you could stand, and although the picture faced straight West, His eyes seemed to follow you. Mother allowed the portrait to stand, unframed, on the mantle piece for some weeks. It was a comfort to see His eyes every morning, the "greet" of Him as we came home in the afternoon. It was pleasant to see the portrait in the evening's light. To stand up before Him, close, and view His eyes, my fingers would want to reach out and touch His cheek, just to see if they would feel as warm as they looked. Smooth, surely the paint would feel smooth, but the lines in His cheekbone would feel a bit sharp, and one could almost put a finger in the dimple that Mother had placed just over His beard. It gave such a sense of realism to the portrait, almost as if Jesus had a slight smile beneath the curve of His lip, hidden behind His beard. The sense of peace I had when looking at His face was more than I had ever known. Then one day, coming home from high school, the portrait was gone. It had been the one thing I looked for every day, and now the mantle piece was bear of His presence. There were no eyes to follow me around the room. A sense of desolation swelled in my heart. Mother had taken the portrait to be framed, as her friend's birthday was going to occur the next week. I knew I was being selfish, but I had hoped that because of the masterful strokes Mother had applied to the canvas, that she would end up keeping the portrait for us, framed or not. But it was not to be so. I remember going to the friend's home with my Mother on that birthday the next week, and I recall her opening the present. She politely thanked my Mother for her efforts, but the praise that I would have given had I been the recipient was woefully lacking. Mother said not a word. But I was appalled at the lackadaisical manner in which the gift was received. This was my mother's best work ever, and for a first attempt, her friend should have given the portrait more regard! I do not know where that portrait might be today. Perhaps it ended up in a garage sale. Perhaps it still graces the wall of the friend's family, for by now she has surely passed away. Perhaps it remains hidden in a closet. I will never know. But I shall always remember that an angel graced and guided my mother's hand, and I shall always remember the look of His eyes, as they followed me around the room. It is a lovely memory. 12.30.00 |
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| © Copyright 2000 Karilea Rilling Jungel - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
And a lovely tale!!! I bet it's framed and given a place of honor somewhere!  |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
I can only hope so Sharon...it seems like yesterday that she painted it...I believe I can still smell the oils... |
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Wilfred Yeats Member Elite
since 2000-08-04
Posts 2704Wilmington, Delaware |
'tis one thing to attend to such a task - and still another to bring to it as artist's touch. Clearly your mother had that touch. you/ll pardon me if I say, you have that touch when you place fingers on keys |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Ah Mr. Yeats...my mother could do anything...as she is gone, it falls to me to try to recapture some of her magic. Thank you for your kind words, and for reading... |
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