Loaded
with years and so sinful,
Living
life of a sinner,
I
am close to both deaths,
And
my heart is nourished with evil.
I
don’t have strength necessary to
Change
my life, my love, or destiny,
Without
your divine and pure guidance,
Which
leads away and defends from each evil path. (1)
The verses of the poem were again on
his mind. He did not know whether they were exact words of a poem,
or in his mind they were mixed with verses of other old poems he
loved reading so much. Oh God, how much he liked reading poems.
Indeed, some of them he knew by heart. As much as he could remember,
the verses that were on his mind were the ones of an old painter,
just like him.
He couldn’t work. In front of
him he had canvas on which he just started painting his new
painting. He wanted so much to paint sea, ships, sails. He was tired
of faces. Tired of so many faces that were smiling, the faces that
were serious, the faces with intriguing look. He didn't like when
after some time he couldn’t relate the face with the person he
portrayed. Sometimes he thought he wasn’t much of a painter.
He kept remembering a sentence: “Create portraits in
order to show what they have in their souls, otherwise your
art won’t be praiseworthy” (2). Was his art
praiseworthy? Many praised him, invited him to exhibitions. And what
was often very important, they bought his works. For big money. In
that way he could remain independent, from his parents, as well as
from his friends. And that’s something he wanted so much, most
of anything else. To be his own man. But it seemed to him, he got
lost. He didn’t know where he made a mistake. When did
everything go wrong? How? Why? He didn’t know, nor he felt
something like that would happen.
On the beach, a small one, sandy
beach, he was alone. That was an excluded beach, and rarely would
anyone go there. Only those who knew him. They used to spend days
together in his uncle’s house nearby. Not far, there was a
small sailboat moving slowly. Very slowly. There was no wind. Only
kind of a breeze. So, the sailboat was there, the sea was of a
beautiful blue colour just before him, but still …
He stood up with a thought of going
home. It was one of those days when he just couldn’t paint. He
collected his colours, brushes, and started going towards the path,
a little narrow road, that led to his house.
But on the way home he had to pass by
a church and an old graveyard. They were on the top of the hill,
from where there was a wonderful view of the beach, on one side, and
the village, on the other side. There his family used to own land,
which, as years passed, was sold. It seems not many of his family
wanted to live there. Only he would like to come and stay there.
Alone, and sometimes with his friends. With his crowd, which he
liked very much sometimes, but again, which sometimes annoyed him
with their superficiality. The road was very narrow and it
wasn’t walked on often. It was grown with grass, and sometimes
even the bushes made obstacles to walk it.
He was reaching the top of the hill,
and the church and the graveyard. He didn’t know why, but he
was always fascinated with graveyards, especially the old ones. He
didn’t know what attracted him to such places, which were for
most people places of sorrow. To him they were kind of a stimulus to
think. About various things. About people. Life. He used to walk
around the graveyard and read epitaphs on the gravestones. Even
though he already knew them by heart. They always seemed new to him.
What attracted him there? He mostly thought about the people who
were buried there. Not that he knew them. But, nevertheless. He
would read the name, sometimes it was also engraved what persons did
during their lives. What kind of people were they? What kind of
lives did they have? Did some of them wander around that very hill,
and did any of them have in his mind the similar thoughts. There
were the graves of some brotherhoods, the graves of some old
families, nuns, and priests. In one of the graves was buried a
certain foreign ambassador. French. How did he end up there? The
grave of the painter’s family was not there.
Leaving the fenced land where there
was the graveyard, he went to the church. It seemed to him the
church door was opened. It was a small, but very beautiful church.
Most likely a medieval, 16th century church. He stepped inside. No
one was in the church. The light went in through the windows, which
made the whole space look so unreal. There was no other light in the
church, except for the candles by the main altar. He liked that
atmosphere of semi-darkness, the colours of the old wooden benches,
altars. He sat on a bench, which creaked, under his body. So in the
dark, it seemed the benches were recently restored, repainted. The
parishioner must have taken good care of the church. On the walls
there were many smaller and bigger paintings from various periods.
Most likely they were votive paintings. On them there were some old
sailing ships, saints. On one of the altars there was a painting of
Our Lady. He didn’t know how old it was, but it attracted him
with its colours and its beauty. Mother of God in a heavenly blue
dress and a dark blue veil over it. With her hands she keeps the
veil off her body, and under it there are people, children that she
protects. Both people and children have their eyes directed to
Mary’s face.
He liked that place, that
tranquillity. There were no sounds that could distract him. He was
absorbed in thought. He tried to penetrate deep into himself, into
the depth of his being. To find himself. To find that something,
which he lost, which is abandoned. There was a total confusion in
his head. He could see the images of places, faces. Some images
would stay for a moment or two, and some would rush away.
What did he want of his life? Did he
achieve it? Then, why is he so unhappy, so blunt? Often he felt he
needed just a little bit more to get out of the bewitched circle, to
get out of a lulled state he was in. Sometimes it seemed clear to
him where he made mistakes. In fact, he knew well where. Only he
couldn’t push it away of him, but he let himself to be driven
by the stream.
Suddenly he felt he wasn’t
alone. He looked towards the door and saw someone entering the
church. He didn’t recognise immediately who that might be.
- You are here, and we are looking for
you. – He heard a voice. - We thought we would find you on the
beach. Didn’t you say you’d go there and paint? –
It was a voice of his friend Marc.
- Everybody else went back to the
house. They stopped looking for you. I thought you were probably in
one of your moods and that you went for a ‘spiritual’
walk.
- ‘Spiritual’ walk?
– He repeated. - You got that right. I couldn’t work, so
I went for a walk. It’s so peaceful here, it simply heals. I
need a rest from noise, constant rushing, superficial conversations.
– He said and remained in silence.
- You’re right. This time we
all exaggerated a little. – Saying that Marc sat on the next
bench.
They remained for several moments
sitting in silence, every one with his own thoughts.
He wanted to continue conversation,
but he couldn’t find right words. He did not want to offend
his friend, because he was one of a few who could understand him. He
could talk to Marc. Maybe, he too, fought inside, and had no one to
talk with.
They were sitting for some time in
silence, and then his friend slowly stood up.
- I’ll go back. – He said
quietly. - I’ll tell them you’re here. Will you come
soon?
- I don’t know. – He
answered. - I think I couldn’t stand some things any more. The
best would be if I stay here, till you all go.
- Then what will I tell them? Best
would be to say I couldn’t find you. I’ll call you today
or tomorrow from the city. I’d like to see you and to talk to
you.
- All right. – He answered. - I
would like that, too.
Marc left the church and closed the
door behind him. Suddenly it became darker.
He stood up and moved towards the
altar with the painting of Our Lady. His eyes were looking at Her
face. He moved closer. He, himself, wanted to be one of those people
and children protected by Mary’s veil.
__________________________________
(1) - Verses of the poem
Prayer to God by Michelangelo
Buonarroti in free translation by the author.
(2) - Leonardo da Vinci Treatise
on painting.
