Standing at the window, I watched the young couple come up the walk. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Are they newly weds? Why do I think they’re married? What could a young couple want from a portrait painter when their money should be tied up in their firsts: their first home, their first car, their first child. Couples that young should be paying off their wedding or honeymoon. What is more important—than their married firsts?
I opened my door to them and stepped back as we introduced ourselves. I asked what kind of portrait were they interested in and how could I help them.
It was the young wife who wanted the portrait. She reached into her purse to pull out a letter-sized envelope with five, faded and worn, small photographs of a laughing teenage boy. I spread them out on my drawing board.
“I would like an oil portrait,” she said.
She explained he was her brother and she wanted the oil portrait as a Christmas gift for her parents.
My clients know their own mind and what it is they want from me. But, yet, I had to ask, “You don’t think your mother and father would like a portrait of you and your husband for Christmas?”
“No. I definitely want one of him.”
“May I ask why.”
“Well. He died last summer and I want to give them something this Christmas.”
“He died. How old was he?”
“He was sixteen-years-old.”
Picturing the need for closure on a long-suffering illness I thought, perhaps, her parents weren’t ready for the next step.
“How did he die?”
“He was shot by his best friend.”
“Shot! What happened?” I asked, thinking what could a sixteen-year-old boy be doing that would get him killed.
“He and his buddy were washing his car when my brother aimed the water hose at him. As a joke his buddy pulled a gun from his car and waved it around as a threat. The gun accidentally went off and shot my brother in the stomach.”
“Oh. Hell.”
We stood shaking our heads in silent communion at life’s stupidities. Her husband never said a word, this was his wife’s story.
Looking down at my drawing board, I spread out her few photographs and asked, “Is any particular one your favorite?”
From the smiling five photographs she said, “Well, we sort of like this one,” and pointed to a young face tilted back with laughter.
“Excellent,” I said, asking for my deposit.
Without a single hesitation or question her husband reached into his back pocket to pull out his check book and opened it to write the specified amount.
A little surprised because he didn’t ask about size or the other myriad questions, I stepped back, and said “You’ve talked to other artists.”
“Yes. You’re our fourth.”
“What was wrong with them?” I asked.
“They said not enough information.”
“Not enough information! He’s a sixteen-year-old boy. I don’t need to know anything else,” I said, gathering up the photographs.
As they walked back to their car I became angry at those other artists who didn’t have enough information. That they didn’t understand she didn’t ask for an oil portrait to bring her brother back to life. But rather, it was the gift from a daughter to her mother and father. That, as an alternative, this Christmas they would talk about the good times.
I opened my door to them and stepped back as we introduced ourselves. I asked what kind of portrait were they interested in and how could I help them.
It was the young wife who wanted the portrait. She reached into her purse to pull out a letter-sized envelope with five, faded and worn, small photographs of a laughing teenage boy. I spread them out on my drawing board.
“I would like an oil portrait,” she said.
She explained he was her brother and she wanted the oil portrait as a Christmas gift for her parents.
My clients know their own mind and what it is they want from me. But, yet, I had to ask, “You don’t think your mother and father would like a portrait of you and your husband for Christmas?”
“No. I definitely want one of him.”
“May I ask why.”
“Well. He died last summer and I want to give them something this Christmas.”
“He died. How old was he?”
“He was sixteen-years-old.”
Picturing the need for closure on a long-suffering illness I thought, perhaps, her parents weren’t ready for the next step.
“How did he die?”
“He was shot by his best friend.”
“Shot! What happened?” I asked, thinking what could a sixteen-year-old boy be doing that would get him killed.
“He and his buddy were washing his car when my brother aimed the water hose at him. As a joke his buddy pulled a gun from his car and waved it around as a threat. The gun accidentally went off and shot my brother in the stomach.”
“Oh. Hell.”
We stood shaking our heads in silent communion at life’s stupidities. Her husband never said a word, this was his wife’s story.
Looking down at my drawing board, I spread out her few photographs and asked, “Is any particular one your favorite?”
From the smiling five photographs she said, “Well, we sort of like this one,” and pointed to a young face tilted back with laughter.
“Excellent,” I said, asking for my deposit.
Without a single hesitation or question her husband reached into his back pocket to pull out his check book and opened it to write the specified amount.
A little surprised because he didn’t ask about size or the other myriad questions, I stepped back, and said “You’ve talked to other artists.”
“Yes. You’re our fourth.”
“What was wrong with them?” I asked.
“They said not enough information.”
“Not enough information! He’s a sixteen-year-old boy. I don’t need to know anything else,” I said, gathering up the photographs.
As they walked back to their car I became angry at those other artists who didn’t have enough information. That they didn’t understand she didn’t ask for an oil portrait to bring her brother back to life. But rather, it was the gift from a daughter to her mother and father. That, as an alternative, this Christmas they would talk about the good times.
If you get fewer than 2,000 rejections a year, you are not working hard enough.
Ida Kotyuk©
www.portraits-oils.com
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