The Eye of the Beholder

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
 
"But will she like it?" Duncan blurted. "Will she really ... really ... like it?"
 
The question had been building up in his chest for the last twenty minutes, while he was trying to pay attention to the maestromonologue performed by Terrence Angellotti, aka TerrrAgotti, self-proclaimed Premier Artiste of the Twenty-First Century. Duncan had hoped to offer something more personal than diamonds and roses to his precious Helene for her seventieth birthday. She had been despondent as the date approached, calling it "a watershed of old age." If there was a way to convince her that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and always would be, then money was no object.
 
Eighteen months ago, TerrrAgotti's artistry had seemed like the perfect solution to Duncan's dilemma. For a mere ten thousand dollars, he would immortalize Helene's beauty on canvas. Duncan didn't know much about art, but Helene was an artist, and would understand what Terrr was doing. His meteoric rise to fame had been fuelled by a bevy of influencers who claimed that he had torn open their souls and laid bare the unique treasures of their authentic transcendent selves. There were even rumours that he was working on a commission from the British royal family.
 
After over a year of discussion, artistic angst, outrageous surcharges, and continuing demands for more revealing photographs of the subject, who could not sit for the portrait without spoiling the surprise, the moment of truth had arrived. 
 
Terrr had unveiled the portrait on its easel with a grand flourish. Duncan had stared, not knowing what to say. He had paid over fifteen thousand dollars for ... this?
 
A female form that might have been almost anyone was floating in midair in a Supergirl pose, waist-length platinum hair streaming behind her, one arm extended towards a starscape. She was surrounded with swirls of colour reminiscent of the aurora borealis, and a flock of misshapen birds.
 
Interpreting Duncan's silence as awe, Terrr had launched into a paean of self-congratulation, explicating the intertwined symbolism of the labyrinthine palette of counterpoised hues, the trajectories of stars reconfiguring into hitherto unknown constellations, the ultimate transcendental unity of all creation merging with the induplicable individuality of a single soul seeking itself in infinity, all manifested by the magic of Terrr's artistic genius, which would never be rivalled or repeated.
 
"But will she like it?" Duncan asked again. "Her hair was never that long. She tried to grow it, but the weight gave her headaches."
 
"Of course she will. She's an artist. Artists understand these things."
 
Terrr offered to have his masterpiece framed in his personal atelier for a paltry three thousand dollars. Duncan declined, saying that he had already made arrangements. Arlene, the gallery owner who had faithfully promoted Helene’s work for the past thirty years, was just the person to tell him whether his purchase was worth the effort and expense of framing, or whether he should just drop it in the dumpster.  
 
Arlene assured him that that the piece had merit. “Maybe not TerrrAgotti’s best work, but his style is written all over it. The value of his signature is rising daily.”
 
“I don’t care about the money,” Duncan said. “I just want Helene to be happy. These are supposed to be our golden years.”

“You might like it better when it’s framed,” Arlene said. “If she doesn’t like it, bring it back and I’ll take it on consignment. I’m sure you can recoup your investment.”

Duncan sighed. He wanted a gold-plated guarantee that Helene would be pleased.  His gift-giving efforts had always been a lottery, and on this occasion of occasions, he had to be a jackpot winner.

xxx

“Happy birthday, Helene,
Happy birthday to you!”

Helene’s friends laughed and applauded as she blew out the candles on her Tiramisu cake. Just two, a seven and a zero, to avoid the danger of a wildfire. 

Helene smiled brilliantly and thanked everyone for coming to help her celebrate. Duncan watched her closely, hoping that he was only imagining the heaviness underlying her veneer of joy. She hadn’t done any painting for weeks now.

Cake, coffee, chatter. Then, the Opening of the Gifts. Duncan had hidden his offering in the spare room, to serve as the grand finale.

Helene unwrapped each gift reverently, showering the donors with joyful noises and speeches of gratitude. She was so good at that. It was a matter of honour for her to never express disappointment with a gift. 

If she didn't like the TerrrAgotti, she would never let him know.  

The final box was opened and praised. Zero hour. Duncan faded from the room and returned with his prize, wrapped in pink parchment and decorated with rosebuds. He prayed silently as he deposited it in front of her.

Please, God, if you can hear me, make her love it as much as I love her.

“Happy birthday, my love. Forever and always.”

He had said those word for the past forty-eight years because he could think of nothing better to say what was on his heart.

Her gaze locked into his, and he knew there was hope.

“You got me a painting?” she teased. “Just what I needed!”

“You can never have too many paintings,” he said, quoting her. There were at least thirty paintings stashed in various nooks and crannies of the house. Some of them were her unsold work, but most of them were paintings she had collected and simply could not let go, whether there was room for them or not. From time to time, he would bring them all out and they would go through them together and choose what to hang up and what to store. She regarded each one as wealth, not clutter, even those whose market value approached zero.

Carol and Belinda, who had been tidying up, rushed to assist Helene with her oversized gift. Carol was the first to notice the signature.

“Oh my God!  It’s a TerrrAgotti!”

Gasps. Squeals. Excited commentary

Carol and Belinda paraded the prize around the room like a holy relic, to be scrutinized. videoed, and applauded. Duncan was unanimously proclaimed Husband of the Year. But the only opinion that meant anything to him was Helene’s.

“It’s supposed to be you,” Duncan explained. “Your portrait. I told him that your hair was never that long, but Terrr said it was part of your inner essence…”

Helene nodded. “I always wanted long hair like that.” She took his hand. “Dunc, did you re-mortgage our house to do this?”

“Relax. Aunt Hazel left me some stock when she died. It jumped 18% last quarter, so I thought it was a good time to sell.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Tears stung his eyes. “I want you to have the best.”

The next morning, Duncan awoke at four o’clock, before the first bird song. Helene was gone.

He found her in her studio, brushes in hand. She had removed her birthday portrait from its frame and placed it on her easel. He watched her make her final brush strokes.and step back with a sigh of satisfaction.

“There! Much better!”

She took another step back and bumped into him.

“Oh!!!” She set down her brushes and came into his arms.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. My painting itch came back.”

He looked at the painting. She had put her own mark on it, transformed it into something he wanted to see on his wall every day for the rest of his life..

“I love it,” he said. “But it was your portrait, and you painted yourself out.”

She laughed. “That wasn’t me. That was a wingless Tinkerbell. But the stars and the aurorae – that’s where I live.”

“Terrr will be very unhappy if he finds out.”

“We don’t have to tell him.”

After coffee, they decided to hang their new painting in the sun room, where they had spent many contented hours together.

“Think of the consternation when we’re dead and people discover a TerrrAgotti landscape!” Helene giggled. “Terrr never does landscapes, just portraits. It will turn the art world upside down.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Duncan said. “He might turn out to be a nine-day wonder. Your paintings are much better.”

He was rewarded with a flurry of kisses, and he knew that her youth had been restored.