XIV

eatrice might have reacted to the painting in any number of ways. Many various possibilities pestered my brain, refusing then to sit idle before they warp out of all design and so become phantastical. Trying to conceive of how I might react to such an anonymous gift was of little help. Someone once had snuck a single rose onto my doorstep. Puzzled, and having no use for flowers, I checked it for hidden Greeks, cleaned up the mess and went about my way. As the deposit suggested no reasonable action, no further thought was given it.

It was clear from the commencement of this adventure that I would never put the painting personally into Beatrice's hands. That would have required courage beyond my capacity. The notion could also be easily dispelled by a brief discourse upon whether it was more rude to wake a near stranger at three in the morning to thrust an unsolicited caricature at them or if the crasser choice was to stalk, skulk, and steal away. I bemoan the failings of our education system with regards to instruction of such subtle points of etiquette. There is clearly a need.

Near stranger, I said. Beatrice knew of me. She knew vaguely of my fascination and I had cause to believe that, through Anne, she was informed of my painterly pursuits. Howsoever the cast-out waif came to Beatrice's doorstep, she could have no doubts as to its parentage. On some level, my knowing that there could be no anonymity in this enterprise, must tell of some form of queer courage.

Parking opposite the Conservatory of Music, I furtively assured myself of solitude before crossing the street with my possession. In the mixed, dim grey glow of moon and streetlight, the painting was revealed to be lifeless. It was plain. This is what I was asking her to judge me on (for surely that desire coloured my decisions). There then, in the midst of a forsaken street, within a sleeping city that he was out of synch with, this wretched, young man was disillusioned. He was caught in that same deadening illumination. The reflection offered by the oily false face of his paramour cast no favourable light upon the scene.

I halted. I balked, but I merely hesitated.

The common cause of faltering creativity, I contend, is failure of courage. The writer, the painter, the poet, et all, are paused in their pursuits by clear panic. To make is to be judged: to judge oneself most of all. It is the easiest thing to live a life of untested promise. I have begun so many paintings and finished but few. I have conceived so many stories yet written but two. An unfinished canvas does not represent failure as much as it suggests potential and thereby lies. When we admire the intentionally unfinished works of Michelangelo and Rodin, when we catch promise in a Matisse gesture, or when we fantasize about the Schubert's unfinished symphony, we do so with the knowledge of the finished works that these masters have completed. They do not have to prove themselves to us on incomplete ideas. An artist, with every work, must prove himself anew to himself. The rub though is that not working or not finishing work allows a quick escape. In the face of impending failure, abandon all work and yea shall be saved. Do not write the word if it is wrong, and you have not erred. If you have not erred then you have not failed and you are still a wellspring of potential.

For many of us, the plight is more complicated still. It is not failure that spooks us. Rather, it is success. Imagine that you can indeed create exactly what you envision and make manifest your purest, perfect imaginings and then, when your brilliance sits complete on the table before you, it is weak. The hands cannot be blamed. There is no fault in skill or craft. Should our mind, our soul, through completed art, prove itself but mediocre, there is a doom that would settle like a shroud upon us.

There is yet a more paralyzing prospect. Dispel Romantic notions of artists being ahead of their time and consider for a moment the unhappy state of one who believes himself to be making works of magnificent genius, only to be lectured by all those that one respects, and being told time and again how the work is poor. Pride in potential is critical to the pursuit. Pride in finished bad art is unforgivable.

And there I stood, spotted by the moonlight, upon the threshold. Shame had not situated me upon that street. Was I proud of this colour-smeared frame in my hands? Was I somehow proud of my fascination with Beatrice? Was this a declaration or a confession. Was it an apology or some kind of lesson?

What my reasons were I could not say for certain. The brain, my brain at least, does not work that way. Few clues can even be found in the action of my finally going forward. I took stealthy, ridiculous footsteps and then, upon the front porch of the conservatory which in some several hours would be vigorously trod upon by eager students, I leaned the painting against the double-doors with Beatrice's distinctive face looking outward, and then high-tailed it away; more like a guilty carnivore than any wary herbivore.

I escaped without incident. Of course, the whole drive home had my thoughts infested with regrets. Awakening a few hours on, I could only wish that I had been less courageous and more courteous. It was unfair to Beatrice, what I had done.

Days later, I took my seat upon a pew and watched the remainder of the audience filter in before the recital. Immediately behind me were a pair of older women and I fortuitously overheard their quiet conversation. Apparently, someone had anonymously left a portrait of Beatrice at the conservatory. There is a social network of grand matronly patronesses that follow all of the various cultural scenes in each town, invigorating themselves on the creative energies of youth, enjoying the fine music, and spreading all the excellent gossip about the subjects of their attention. Importantly, and thankfully, they are also an enthusiastic audience when fresh performers need exactly that. My deposited portrait had caused a small furor of gossip but the artist remained a mystery. I yearned to turn about but deferred to the accompanying spinster. My trust was well placed for she did ask after the quality of the painting though the reply was not helpful: she had only secondary sources to draw upon. To this day, I am always startled by how much I yearn to hear positive remarks about my work even while firmly believing that the opinions of others do not matter to me.

They say that Beatrice did not care for the picture but it was not mentioned if that was for aesthetic or psychological reasons. None could fault her for either. My ability to communicate with women was certainly no better than my oil painting skills. In the end, Beatrice's sister Phaedra championed the painting. She saw something worthwhile in the work.

XV