A Portrait As Peace

 

coterminous - adjective - having the same boundaries or extent in space, time or meaning, co-existing (Google). 

Ben Franklin once stated that nothing in this world is certain except death and taxes. Even multiple decades later, no one could contest his line of pragmatic reasoning. Although at present we are in the midst of tax season–less than two weeks before the IRS's deadline–death has no specific season as it is, unfortunately, ubiquitous: a reality for all seasons. Those who are directed to pay huge sums to Uncle Sam eventually get past the feeling that somehow they have been cheated out of their hard-earned cash, but those who experience the loss of a loved one may find their grief to be infinite as opposed to finite if they choose to dwell in the space left vacant by departure. Others resort to creative means to fill the gap left when someone special departs. One of which is the portrait. (Don't worry. I'm not heading in the direction of Dorian Gray although if you have never read Wilde's classic, The Picture of Dorian Gray, I highly recommend that you do.)

Last week, my daughter and I were invited to a goulash party at my friend's father's home. (How's that for new and different?) The father, Ted, who is at least 90, is perhaps the most timeless individual I've ever met and perhaps the best chef, specializing in the perpetuation of Hungarian goulash, the recipe for which his mother procured from the W.P.A. (Think of the Great Depression here.) In the late 1980's, Ted and his family lost a daughter, Lindsay, 27, who was also a friend of mine, to a cerebral aneurysm. I can't imagine anything more grievous than the loss of a child, yet the family worked through it, cleaving to faith and fond memories primarily, one of which Ted had preserved via a portrait. When I walked through the door and into the living room of his museum of an unaltered house–something I had not done in forty years– to my left was a pastel likeness of Lindsay, so photographic in its authenticity that I did a double take because I thought I was looking right at her in the flesh. I recognized the fragile wreath of flowers on her head and the frilly, peach bodice of a dress she wore as the bridesmaid in her sister's wedding. Suddenly the past and present were coterminous; it was as though Lindsay had never died; the portrait achieved its purport: to preserve her beauty in perpetuity. No doubt, the likeness offers Ted, his relations and friends a certain degree of solace with every gaze. It sure did for me.

I also have a prized portrait in my home, one of my dearly departed dad that my mother, a portraitist (also deceased), had done in charcoal just after becoming engaged to my father. Although he passed in 2010 at nearly 87 after having lived a wonderful life, I still miss him, my best friend, tremendously, but the portrait proffers me peace. I have it hung a few feet away from where I sit at the helm of the dining room table so that he is forever by my side at meals (where he enjoyed being), forever present. We offer each other coterminous smiles that invite immortal memories, assuaging any pain on my part.

Just like death and taxes, art is a constant. Through his/her art, the artist achieves immortality and bequeaths the onlookers a piece of the eternal. If you have lost someone recently and are having trouble accepting the loss, a portrait of peace (even if it is just a favorite enlarged photo) may be just what you need. 

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