hands.
“Otoko, I’m living for someone else too!” Her voice trembled. “But when it’s a man like Mr. Oki …”
“Forgive me. It all happened when I was so young.”
“I’m going to get revenge.”
“That wouldn’t destroy my love.”
Keiko was weeping on the veranda, still with her face in her hands. “Paint me, Otoko … before I turn into the kind of woman you said. Please! Let me pose in the nude for you.”
“All right. I’d love doing a portrait of you.”
“I’m glad!”
Otoko had stored away a number of sketches of her dead baby. Years had passed, but she still intended to use them for a painting to be called
The Ascension of an Infant.
She had searched through albums of Western art for pictures of cherubs and of the Christ child, but their plump good health seemed inappropriate to her sorrow. There were several famous old Japanese paintings of Saint Kobo as a boy that touched her with their typically graceful expression of restrained emotion. Yet the saint was neither an infant nor was he ascending to heaven.Not that Otoko wanted to show the ascension as such, only to suggest that kind of spiritual feeling. But would she ever finish it?
Now that Keiko had asked to be painted, Otoko thought of her old sketches for
The Ascension of an Infant.
Perhaps she could portray Keiko in the manner of the paintings of the boy saint. It would be a purely classical
Portrait of a Holy Virgin.
Though works of religious art, some of the saint’s portraits had an indescribably seductive charm.
“Keiko, I do want to paint you,” said Otoko, “and I’ve just thought of a design. It’ll be in the Buddhist tradition, so I can’t have any sort of improper pose.”
“Buddhist?” Keiko shifted uneasily. “I’m not sure I care for the idea.”
“Well, let me try. Buddhist paintings are often very beautiful—and I could call it
A Girl Abstractionist.
”
“You’re teasing me.”
“I’m serious. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished the tea plantation.” Otoko looked back at the studio wall. Over their pictures of the tea plantation hung her portrait of her mother.
Otoko let her eyes rest on the portrait.
Her mother looked young and beautiful in it, even younger than herself. Perhaps that reflected Otoko’s own age of thirty-one or -two at the time she painted it. Or perhaps it had just turned out that way.
When Keiko first saw it she had said: “Lovely. This looks like a self-portrait.” Does it really? Otoko had wondered.
Otoko resembled her mother. Was it out of longing for her dead mother that so much of the resemblance was captured in this portrait? At first she had made a great many sketches based on a photograph, but none of these had moved her. Then she decided to ignore the photograph—and there was her mother sitting before her. Rather than a phantom, it was her living image. Over and over she made new sketches, swiftly, her heart overflowing with emotion. But frequently she paused, eyes clouded with tears. She realized that the portrait of her mother was becoming more like a self-portrait.
The final result was the picture now hanging on the wall over the studies of the tea plantation. Otoko had burned all the earlier versions. The remaining one looked most like a self-portrait, but Otoko thought it would do. Whenever she looked at it, there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. The picture breathed with her. How long had it taken her to fix the image into this portrait?
Until now Otoko had painted no other portraits, and only a few small figure paintings of any kind. Yet tonight, pressed by Keiko, she suddenly felt like doing a portrait. Otoko had never thought of her
Ascension of an Infant
in that way. But that long-cherished wish must explain why she was reminded of the portraits of the boy saint, and wanted to paint Keiko in classical Buddhist style. Her mother, her lost baby, and Keiko—were they not her three loves? Different as they were, she should paint all three of
“Otoko, I’m living for someone else too!” Her voice trembled. “But when it’s a man like Mr. Oki …”
“Forgive me. It all happened when I was so young.”
“I’m going to get revenge.”
“That wouldn’t destroy my love.”
Keiko was weeping on the veranda, still with her face in her hands. “Paint me, Otoko … before I turn into the kind of woman you said. Please! Let me pose in the nude for you.”
“All right. I’d love doing a portrait of you.”
“I’m glad!”
Otoko had stored away a number of sketches of her dead baby. Years had passed, but she still intended to use them for a painting to be called
The Ascension of an Infant.
She had searched through albums of Western art for pictures of cherubs and of the Christ child, but their plump good health seemed inappropriate to her sorrow. There were several famous old Japanese paintings of Saint Kobo as a boy that touched her with their typically graceful expression of restrained emotion. Yet the saint was neither an infant nor was he ascending to heaven.Not that Otoko wanted to show the ascension as such, only to suggest that kind of spiritual feeling. But would she ever finish it?
Now that Keiko had asked to be painted, Otoko thought of her old sketches for
The Ascension of an Infant.
Perhaps she could portray Keiko in the manner of the paintings of the boy saint. It would be a purely classical
Portrait of a Holy Virgin.
Though works of religious art, some of the saint’s portraits had an indescribably seductive charm.
“Keiko, I do want to paint you,” said Otoko, “and I’ve just thought of a design. It’ll be in the Buddhist tradition, so I can’t have any sort of improper pose.”
“Buddhist?” Keiko shifted uneasily. “I’m not sure I care for the idea.”
“Well, let me try. Buddhist paintings are often very beautiful—and I could call it
A Girl Abstractionist.
”
“You’re teasing me.”
“I’m serious. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished the tea plantation.” Otoko looked back at the studio wall. Over their pictures of the tea plantation hung her portrait of her mother.
Otoko let her eyes rest on the portrait.
Her mother looked young and beautiful in it, even younger than herself. Perhaps that reflected Otoko’s own age of thirty-one or -two at the time she painted it. Or perhaps it had just turned out that way.
When Keiko first saw it she had said: “Lovely. This looks like a self-portrait.” Does it really? Otoko had wondered.
Otoko resembled her mother. Was it out of longing for her dead mother that so much of the resemblance was captured in this portrait? At first she had made a great many sketches based on a photograph, but none of these had moved her. Then she decided to ignore the photograph—and there was her mother sitting before her. Rather than a phantom, it was her living image. Over and over she made new sketches, swiftly, her heart overflowing with emotion. But frequently she paused, eyes clouded with tears. She realized that the portrait of her mother was becoming more like a self-portrait.
The final result was the picture now hanging on the wall over the studies of the tea plantation. Otoko had burned all the earlier versions. The remaining one looked most like a self-portrait, but Otoko thought it would do. Whenever she looked at it, there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. The picture breathed with her. How long had it taken her to fix the image into this portrait?
Until now Otoko had painted no other portraits, and only a few small figure paintings of any kind. Yet tonight, pressed by Keiko, she suddenly felt like doing a portrait. Otoko had never thought of her
Ascension of an Infant
in that way. But that long-cherished wish must explain why she was reminded of the portraits of the boy saint, and wanted to paint Keiko in classical Buddhist style. Her mother, her lost baby, and Keiko—were they not her three loves? Different as they were, she should paint all three of
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