Black and White

He demands to have his portrait painted, and he asks how long it will take. However, he stands there patiently as I study his features carefully. I tell him truthfully that I really have no idea if what he wanted was a wonderfully detailed one. He agrees with my statement and then tells me to take my time. I am pleased. Not many customers are like that, you see. 1

Black and white, he tells me. Black and white, with gray, he tells me again. He tells me that they meant a lot to him – these three colours. I do not ask why. The customer gets whatever the customer asks for. Yes, that is the way of my life. He sits down in the chair indicated while I prepare my paints. Black and white paint get placed onto my palette and I mixed a little of both to make it grey. Black and white, with gray, as the customer asks for. Black and white and gray.2

He leans back onto the chair and his face relaxes and I stand in front of my canvas and inspect his face. I count the wrinkles and I try to see the contours of the face. The best portrait is one that tells a story, he says suddenly and I freeze. My teacher once told me that, and she believed deeply in that. So, he continues, let me tell you a story. I pick up my paintbrush as he starts his tale.3

It turns out; he was a soldier, one from the Old War. He was fighting for – here, he mumbles, so I don’t catch it – and they had suffered a major defeat. The enemies had known of their plans already, and he lay there, on the ground. He lay there dying as the sun’s warmth faded. It was winter, he recalled. The cold frost had settled in their bones before they had even lost, and they were not used to the cold. He tells of how beautiful the desert he lived in was, compared to the cold.4

On the canvas, I am drawing the outlines. Soft outlines, then a harsh stroke came from nowhere. My hands starts moving on its own, free of all will. 5

He is now telling of how he blacks out and when awakens, he is in a warm house. Imagine, he says, one moment you are dying, and then the next you are by a fire! He talks on how he thought he was dead, but when he saw a girl, he knew he wasn’t. An angel can never go to the netherworld, he explains, and then carries on. He tells how the girl helped him cure his wounds slowly – and how they fell in love.6

I have the sketch, and I find it rather fine. I start working the paint. 7

The sorrow, he mutters, when she told me of how her homeland had been half destroyed by the Old War. Our fault, he mumbles, our fault. My fault to cause an angel harm in her peace. He bends over, and I hear a soft sobbing. 8

But he does not stop there. He goes on to talk about the guilt, and how forbidden their love was. Their countries were fighting, and they were in love. Could you imagine that, he asks, both of us against our countries... Only that she didn't know. 9

He is crying, but I ignore him. I care only for the painting. Only the painting, and I keep on painting, unable to stop. My hands move but my mind does not work. I sit back in my mind and watch the painting unfold. 10

They had a child, he tells me, but the child died, and with it, the spirit of his love died. The lady died one day after, he mutters with anger, and then he sits back again.11

It is done, at last. I look at it finally, the whole picture. The man is there, his face held up proud, on his lips a grim smile as if to apologise. In the dark shadows of the painting, a white tear hides.12

He stands up, and looks at it. He does not remark - but his word lingers. Each portrait tells a story. And this tells of his.13

Black and white.14

And grey.15