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A Portrait by a Poor Artist |
| Written by Robert Black | |
| Sunday, 10 February 2008 | |
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Share it:      My Dearest Sara, Your portrait, which I painted, still hangs on the wall over my desk, yet it has been four years since that terrible day when you said goodbye. I still remember that sad day. Do you? But, that’s not why I am writing this letter: a letter that you will never read, for I will never send. So, why am I writing it then? I am not sure, to be honest, but I think it has to do with the fact that I saw you yesterday at the gallery ‘Elaine function. I don’t think you have seen me. You looked beautiful but sad. I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but I didn’t. I feel that I must talk to you, Sara, but I can’t. We both know what was once will never be. Still, I have to talk to you; thus, I am writing you a letter, which I am not going to send, but I have to tell you, somehow. Perhaps, it is that I have to tell myself. I saw you yesterday, and you looked sad. Have you not found happiness with him? No, you haven’t; after all, you were not looking for happiness. No, you wanted wealth. Material wealth. Have you found wealth? Yes, you did. Sara, you are very rich now. Expensive pearls adorn your graceful décolletage. In your portrait you are not wearing expensive pearls; you look heavenly in the portrait. During the sizzling summer of 2004, I painted your portrait. Do you remember? There at the museum gardens, among the Sweetgum trees and the currant shrubs, you sat so serenely while I painted. Your dreamy look was captured flawlessly on the canvas and your innocent, girlish smile too. When you left, you said you wanted security. Have you found security? How much did this security cost? I would like to know how much you have sold me for. But, I am not writing this to start a fight. I don’t want to upset you. I am writing this to tell you, myself, that you were right. Life with a poor artist is hard. I am too much myself not to be poor. I suppose I can’t change; I don’t want to change. I am poor. When I create art, I am poor. When I give art away, I am poor. When I do not care about money, I am poor. When I give to the poor, I am poor. I am poor because I can’t walk by without thinking of those that are truly poor. I am poor because I give too much of my time to others (I still assist every weekend at the mission house). Because I do not want to be rich, I am poor. I am poor because I do not sell my feelings. I am poor, and I am happy. I am poor, for I have refused to sell your portrait. I refused an offer to sell your portrait. Refused an offer by whom? By him. Yes, he offered to buy it a few weeks ago. Perhaps, you know about it. Perhaps, it was you that sent him here. You should know, Sara, that the offer was considerable, enough to pay three years worth of rent and expenses, but I have turned it down. He is not rich enough to buy this painting. He is rich enough to buy you but not your portrait. And, so, your portrait remains mine. It hangs over my desk, where I am writing this letter now, to remind me that I am poor for only one reason: I am poor because I do not have you. Forever yours, Jonathan.
Copyright 2008 Robert Black |
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| Last Updated ( Thursday, 14 February 2008 ) |
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