The Self-Portrait
Henry Gordon had been happily married for two years; unfortunately, he and his wife, Barbara, just celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Some marriages, they say, are made in heaven; the Gordons' originated much farther to the south. Yet although far from a happy one, their union was not completely unbearable. There were no open hostilities, just an ongoing undeclared cold war. Day after day, month after month, year after year Henry and Barbara went through the motions of a marriage, but it was all a façade, all form without substance. As a couple, they met their required social obligations: company Christmas parties, weddings, funerals and so on. When they were alone, however, they were remote and barely spoke to each other.
Henry did not particularly mind his lot in life. His needs were simple. He had his health, his job, his home and his hobby. While in high school, he discovered that he had some talent as a painter. In fact, he had wanted to study art in college, but his commonsensical father urged his only son to pursue a more secure, less competitive profession, so Henry became an accountant. In his free time, though, he liked to paint still-life scenes, which he then donated to the church to be sold at their annual arts and crafts fair.
About the time he was growing tired of painting bowls of fruit and vases of flowers, inspiration for a new style of painting came to him in the form of a wall calendar that featured reproductions of twelve paintings by artist Charles Wysocki, focusing on scenes, set primarily in New England, of small-town and country life. Henry was immediately drawn to these delightful scenes of a bygone era in America. To him, they represented a much happier existence than his own: a time when there was no fear of global warming, no terrorist attacks, no mass shootings and none of the stress associated with living in the twenty-first century. He was so enamored of Wysocki's work that he decided to try to do a painting in the same Americana tradition. The subject of his first painting was a turn-of-the-century New England seaport, similar to Mystic Seaport, the maritime museum in Mystic, Connecticut.
At first, Henry's brushstrokes were hesitant, as though he were blindly feeling his way through the darkness. But artistic passion soon took hold of him, and he embraced the creative process. The image on the canvas was no longer a mere picture; it became a glimpse into the private world of his imagination. While in the fervor of his painting, he could sense the town coming to life, could almost feel the ocean breezes blowing through his hair and hear the many sounds of the port, its businesses and its people. When he finished the painting, rather than donating it to charity, he proudly hung it in his office at A.J. Barnes and Associates, CPAs.
Several weeks later, while Henry was working on his second such painting—that of a small-town Main Street circa 1890—his wife called to him from the front yard. The sound of Barbara's strident voice broke his concentration, as it always did. Reluctantly, he put down his brush and palette and went outside to see what she wanted. He had no idea who the stranger speaking with his wife was, but he thought she was the most attractive woman he had ever met.
"This is Miss Pamela James, our new neighbor," Barbara introduced the unknown woman to her husband. "Miss James is a teacher at Sterling Elementary School."
Henry knew his wife well enough to interpret the disdain behind her words. From the cold tone of her voice, he knew she had taken an instant dislike to the new neighbor. He, on the other hand, warmly welcomed Miss James to the community.
"Thank you, and please call me Pam. If we're to be neighbors, I think we should be on a first-name basis."
Henry smiled and quickly suppressed the spark of excitement that flared within him when Pamela shook his hand.
* * *
The long, cold winter passed, and with the warm days of spring, another tax season arrived. Henry was kept very busy at A.J. Barnes and Associates, often working long into the night and all day on Saturday. On Sundays—his only day off—Barbara kept him busy doing household chores. If he did not perform them quickly enough or to her satisfaction, she would nag him until he did. With his hectic work schedule and his wife's demands, he had no time to paint, although more than ever he longed for a few tranquil hours, brush in hand, in front of his canvas. Unfortunately, his small-town street scene would have to wait.
Eventually, April 15 came and went, and Henry's life returned to normal. Once again, he picked up his brushes, oils and palette, stood before his easel and began to paint. His peace of mind was spoiled only by Barbara, who was becoming increasingly irritable with each passing day. Though she criticized everyone and everything, two things seemed to cause her particular distress: her husband's painting, which she considered frivolous, effeminate, and a complete waste of time, and that "prissy" Miss James who lived next door. Barbara, it seemed, felt an intense loathing for the woman she referred to as "the uppity old maid schoolmarm."
More and more Henry sought escape from her nasty temperament in the solace of his den, where he would sometimes retreat for hours and paint. Once he had completed all the buildings in his nineteenth-century town, he painted a bandstand in the town common. Then, with God-like strokes of his paintbrush, he populated the previously empty streets and sidewalks with men, women, children and animals. He painted a band on the bandstand, a group of children playing on the sidewalk and various people riding by in horse-drawn carriages. He also painted three dogs, two cats and several birds. Finally, he added little details such as a flower garden, a pumpkin patch and a flagpole from which Old Glory proudly waved. The last thing he painted was a man with a horse-drawn ice cream wagon standing near the bandstand.
"That should do it," he said, as he stood back to admire his finished work.
It was only then that Henry noticed that one of the pedestrians he had painted in front of the bookshop on Main Street bore a strong resemblance to his neighbor, Miss James. On a wild impulse, he painted himself at the woman's side.
A sudden weariness overtook him, and he sat down in his wing chair. Immediately, he fell asleep. The sound of band music woke him. Bewildered, he looked around. Was he dreaming? Surely this could not be happening! His early American Main Street painting was no longer an inanimate, two-dimensional rendering on canvas. It had come to life, and, more amazing, he himself had become part of it.
"Henry, darling, I'd love to have an ice cream cone. Would you be a dear and go get me one—chocolate, if he has any?" Miss James asked, smiling coyly up at him. "You know how much I love ice cream."
Henry reached into the pocket of his old-fashioned suit and found some antique coins with which he bought them both an ice cream cone. The two of them then spent the next few hours sitting in the common, talking and listening to the band playing on the bandstand. It was paradise! And if it was only a dream, he prayed he would never wake up.
Evening came, and the sun began to set. Pamela looked even lovelier in the twilight. Henry tenderly took her in his arms and bent his head to kiss her ....
"Henry! Henry! Where the hell are you?" Barbara shouted. "The damned vacuum cleaner is clogged again. I asked you to fix it this morning. But no! You would rather waste your time painting those silly pictures of yours."
The magic—or whatever it had been—was gone. Once more the turn-of-the-century town was only a two-dimensional painting, a lifeless world on canvas, and he was no longer a part of it. Pamela was a fantasy; Barbara was the reality. Longing for a world that did not really exist, he turned off the light in the den and went to fix the vacuum cleaner.
* * *
"Hi, Henry. How are things at work now that tax season is behind us?" Pamela, asked as she lugged her garbage can out of her garage.
"Lots of people getting rich," Henry replied, "but I'm not one of them—more's the pity. Here, let me get that for you."
He crossed the yard and brought the trash out to the curb for her.
"I was just about to have a cup of coffee. Want to join me?" his neighbor offered.
"Sure," he answered and followed her inside the house. "How are things at school?"
"You don't want to know!" she laughed. "Honestly, teaching gets more difficult every year. Sometimes I wish I could just run away. I'd love to go off and live on an island somewhere far from the cares of the world we live in."
"I never knew you felt that way. You always seem so cheerful and optimistic."
"Do I?" she asked sadly. "Well, I'm over forty and have never been married. I've spent most of my life teaching other women's children yet never had any of my own."
"Is that what you want: your own children?"
Pamela shrugged.
"Not really. I suppose what I want most is someone to share my life with. I don't want to be lonely anymore."
"It's hard to imagine you being lonely. You're an intelligent, personable and attractive woman. If I'm not being too forward, may I ask why you never married?"
"When I was young, I was only interested in getting a degree and starting my teaching career. After I turned thirty, my choices were extremely limited. The few interesting men I've met since then were already married."
She smiled meaningfully at him, and his heart skipped a beat.
"Besides," she continued, "I hate to admit it, but most men seem to find me quite boring. I have very old-fashioned values, and my ideas of a good time are a bit too tame for people nowadays."
It was the most personal conversation Henry and Pamela had ever had. Previously, their discussions were limited to current events, the weather, neighborhood gossip and their respective careers. Henry was intrigued by the new intimacy, and he longed to learn more about this captivating woman.
"Tell me, Pamela, what would it take to make a woman like you happy?"
"I had a dream the other night, one that took place in a little town, about a century ago. I was with a man, listening to a band playing on a bandstand."
Henry stared at her, and she blushed and turned her eyes away.
"We talked, listened to music and ate ice cream," she continued. "I know it must sound ridiculous, but in that dream, I felt happier than I ever felt before."
"What happened then?" he asked, nearly choking on the words.
"I woke up just as he was about to kiss me."
Barbara suddenly appeared at Pamela's back door, her unsmiling face a dark cloud on the horizon ready to spoil a sunny day.
"So, this is where you are," she said, seeing her husband drinking coffee at the neighbor's kitchen table. "I've been looking all over for you!"
It was ironic, Henry thought, that Pamela was feeling sad and lonely because she had never married, while he was suffering the same torments because he had.
* * *
Melancholy set in, with loneliness following close behind. Henry felt so despondent that he had even lost his desire to paint. A day rarely passed without Barbara subjecting him to a bout of verbal abuse. He did not know how much more of her shrewish behavior he could take.
Then one evening, the unhappy husband sat in his den staring at his Main Street painting. He was so deep in thought that he was not aware of Barbara watching him from the doorway. She followed his gaze to the painting of the small New England town, specifically to the woman standing in front of the bookstore. Barbara recognized her immediately as their spinster neighbor.
Henry is besotted with Pamela James!
The realization made Barbara Gordon seethe with jealousy—jealousy born of hurt pride and injured vanity rather than of any tender affection for her husband.
When Henry came home from his office the following evening, he heard his wife cheerfully humming a tune in the kitchen.
What's got her in such a good mood for a change? he wondered—not that he really cared one way or the other.
When he walked past the den on his way to dinner, he learned the answer to that question. While he was at work, Barbara slashed his painting, leaving the canvas in shreds.
Henry did not shout, lose his temper or show any visible signs of anger. He merely went down to the dining room, sat down at the table and calmly and quietly ate his dinner. Barbara was not so happy then. No doubt, she had been expecting him to take her act of vandalism much harder, and his lack of reaction took the wind out of her sails.
The following morning Henry woke early and phoned his office to say that he was not feeling well and planned on staying home. Then he placed a blank canvas on his easel, picked up a pencil and quickly sketched the outline of a small island town similar to those found on Nantucket. As was his method, he started painting the buildings first: a general store, a church, a doctor's office and, on a hill overlooking the Atlantic, a quaint, weather-beaten saltbox. Next, he painted in the carriages, the horses, the shopkeepers and the street vendors—most importantly, the man with the ice cream wagon.
He then painted a woman on the steps of the saltbox. It was Pamela James, the love of his life. He was sure to include Barbara, as well; after all, he could not have her loud, irritating voice calling him back to reality again. Tightening his grip on his paintbrush, he painted a cemetery in the back of the church. One grave stood apart from the others. It was the only one with a name on the headstone: Barbara Ann Gordon. The final detail Henry painted before leaving his old life and beginning a new one was a smiling widower, heading toward the woman on the steps of the saltbox, carrying a container of chocolate ice cream in his hand.
The image in the upper left corner is from the painting "Checking in on Old Martha's Vineyard" by Charles Wysocki.
Salem, I doubt that painting yourself on a slab of Godiva chocolate will make your dream come true.
