The Time of my Life

The Time of my life

I am a painter.

I have loved painting ever since I can remember. It is probably the one thing I am good at.

I love to paint nature, but unlike many an artist, I prefer to paint what is immediately around us – in our daily lives – rather than a beautiful sunrise in far Tahiti or a polar bear in the Arctic. Not that there is anything wrong with those. In fact, painting something so far off does require a great deal of imagination and talent. The very purpose of such paintings is to take the viewer far away from the daily monotonies of life. To give him/her a whiff of fresh air. A welcome relief, yes, but how long could it last? Ten minutes? At first sight, you go, “Wow, how beautiful!” And then you imagine yourself sitting on that clean spit of yellow sand watching the sun’s rays shimmer off the crystal blue water. Maybe the odd dolphin leaping out of one corner of your vision. A moment of bliss later, you wake up to the fact that you are neither in Tahiti nor could you possibly contemplate a vacation there with the kind of living you earn.

That is precisely the reason why I choose to paint the world we live our daily lives in. When you look closely enough, you would be surprised to find many simply but effective frames that would bring a smile on your face. A snapshot of a young boy picking up a lady’s dropped purse or of the kids running after the balloon-man would bring the same rejuvenation to your parched imagination as would the Tahiti sunrise or the polar bear. Perhaps, you might appreciate it more because it is more plausible to you.

So when I set up my easel every morning in one corner of the cobbled old main street on the outskirts of Strasbourg I just look around me and start painting the first thing I see.

The morning was perfect. It was clear and the sky was blue, save the few fluffs of white wafting about. It was cool and the spring colours were evident in the foliage. As I turned right and slightly behind me down the slope to look towards the stone bridge at the end of the street, I saw something that was distinctive. Not that a lady taking a break from walking her poodle in the morning to look down at the creek is a novelty, but there was something unique about this lady. Or perhaps it was the poodle. It could have been the way she was standing with a slight tilt of her head. I think it was her lovely blue hat and the graceful poise. It must have been all these factors, for I already had my brush dipped into the petri-dish and the first stroke of paint on the clean canvas felt smooth.

I started with the bridge itself. The old grey cobbles that make up the road and the slightly elevated sidewalk on either side. One could not miss the simple yet lovely one-two pattern that the juxtaposed cobbles made on the road. The aged parapet itself was neat with a slightly decorative balustrade that was adorned with a newly installed metal hand rail inset with aesthetic curves and painted gold to reflect the sun. The old intricately designed lamp-posts were still there (and very much functional in the night) – just that the oil wicks had recently given way to fluorescent bulbs. The glass boxed lamp-hoods atop the posts made the scene that bit richer.

Now that the bridge was done, I could stand the lady on it. I started with an outline to bring out her poise. A slim figure, just right for the height, crafted with dexterity by His hands, striking a self-confident pose naturally, without ever trying to. She had her right hand on the rail and also holding onto her poodle’s leash and with her left she was trying to adjust her hat which, had slightly moved with the fresh morning zephyr coming from behind her and the other side of the bridge.

From my point-of-view, I could see the pure white glove on her left hand extending to her elbow as she held the brim of her hat. The hat itself was lovely. Light blue with a simple and elegant frill and a neat ribbon, it had a wide brim that flopped a little in the light breeze. The way she wore it, at a gentle tilt, cast a slight shadow on the left side of her face. A golden coil of hair fell down by her ear.

The face was one of the most beautiful I have set my eyes upon. Perfectly moulded with flawlessly youthful skin and neatly positioned and proportioned features, she looked a goddess without wearing any makeup. Her cheek had a natural pale pink blush and her eyes were clear and strong. I could not make out the colour of her eyes but I am reasonably sure it would be an electric blue.

I followed her gaze and in her line of sight I found white mother goose and her five fledglings, frolicking in the water that was as calm as a millpond. That was the sight that had brought on a slight smile which made an ever so gentle dimple that highlighted the exotic beauty of the face.

My painting was coming along quite nicely and I added in the simple details of her elegant frock. By her side was the poodle, with his tongue hanging out and tail wagging at a canine friend being pulled along by a man on his morning walk. There were a few other people about who fit into the scope of my vision.

I added in the colourful undulating surrounds, blue water, the geese family and distant church steeple on the far side of the bridge. The blue sky dotted with a few fluffy clouds and some pigeons about. Nearer in perspective, the road leading to the bridge on my side and old quaint buildings on either side.

I had almost finished and the canvas looked so rich with colour and the lady in the middle of it all stunningly beautiful. I looked towards the bridge and the lady to see if I had missed anything. She had moved and was now walking leisurely towards this side of the bridge. I noticed the one ornament she wore. A single sparkling diamond set in an outline of a heart made of white gold. The chain itself was almost invisible. I added in the diamond, that her left hand might have covered up in the distance when she was leaning on the hand rail.

I was done. I stood back to admire my work and felt very pleased. Here it was, a lovely picture of a beautiful woman walking her dog and taking a break to look at some geese having fun in the water. The simplicity of the scene made it so fresh and easy to relate to. It was very plausible too. I was just finishing with my signature and date at the right bottom corner of the canvas when I heard a light footstep behind me. I looked up and found the lady in my picture staring at the canvas. I looked at her eyes and they were soft and brown – not electric blue – but it made her look even prettier.

“Wow, how beautiful! What a wonderful painting.” She looked down at the bridge from where we stood and I followed her line of sight to see an old man with a cane stopping to admire the view from the very spot she had been a few minutes ago. Then she looked at the painting again.

Turning to me she asked, “May I buy this one, please?”

She offered me ten francs. It was a large sum of money in the year 1975 and my needs were simple. It would take care of me for a week.

Besides, in painting it, I had had the time of my life which, to me, is priceless.

* * *

‘Grandpa, why are you crying?’ My grandson, who turned ten today, was confused. I had not realized tears had welled in my eyes and were beginning to drop. Mistake not, those were not tears of sadness, instead those were tears of joy.

As I took my grandson’s hand in mine, and walked towards the steps, I contemplated the certificate I held in the other hand. “…inducted into the Louvre Hall of Fame for his fantastic depiction of Ms. Audrey Hepburn…”

I took one last look at the picture I had painted thirty one years ago sitting in a glass covered panel admired by a hundred different people. The tour guide was explaining to the crowd that the painting on the wall was worth more than a million dollars.

I turned away and walked down the steps holding my grandson’s hand.

‘Like I said, my young lad, those were simple times and I was a simple man. I had had the time of my life earning ten francs. And I have cherished that feeling all these years and it still feels more powerful than today.’

He did not seem to understand and had a confused look on his face. But only for moment, for he had spotted the colourful balloons that the man on the street was hawking.

‘May I have one of those balloons, grandpa?’

‘Sure you can. It is your birthday.’

Perhaps, to him, his tenth birthday and the balloon I buy for him would be the time of his life.