The Painting
The January morning was icy cold. The air felt almost like liquid in Carl’s lungs. It was, he thought, the sort of cold that robs you of bits of your life. Still, he could not resist stopping in front of the gallery that morning the same way he had every morning for weeks since the painting was hung in the window. The painting that was vexing Carl because he couldn’t figure out what it was.
The picture wasn’t anything remarkable in subject matter or execution. It wasn’t an abstraction that lent itself to interpretation. It was, in fact a pretty straightforward painting until you tried to figure out what the narrative was behind it; that is what moment in time was the painting trying to capture?
The painting was a picture of a man that Carl had initially presumed to be a fisherman because he appeared to be standing at the rail of a boat except you couldn’t see the boat you could only see the man, the rail and the water and another man further in the background. The men were positioned in the left side of the frame and they were standing on something brown and apparently made of wood and they were both leaning over a black railing reaching down and out of frame presumably toward the water that filled the right side of the frame.
The man in the front looked to be in his fifties, his hair was mostly but not entirely grey and his face was lined with age. Or was it age? Perhaps the man was much younger and was a lifelong fisherman and years of exposure to the abrasive elements of seagoing life had eroded his face into its current topography. The man wore a navy blue coat and black pants and you had no idea what kind of shoes he wore because those were out of frame. He was reaching over the rail and straining mightily at a rope. Attached to what? Again you couldn’t tell. Was it a fishing net? Was it a life ring thrown to a person gone overboard? Or was he on a dock pulling up gear or a crab trap or something else? The only thing you could tell for sure was that whatever was other end of that rope it was heavy, or at least heavy to the man pulling on the rope.
The man in the background was not straining. Not one bit. That man was standing and watching the struggle between the man in the foreground and the rope. You couldn’t tell much about the man in the background. He was too far away to read his expression. He appeared to be dressed entirely in gray and his left hand rested on the rail. You had no idea whether or not he was going to suddenly decide to help the man in the foreground with his struggle or whether he was content to watch. In the moment frozen into the historical record by this painting the man in the background was merely an observer and you could not discern his level of interest in what was going on.
Further complicating matters, there was no sequel panel. This wasn’t a triptych or part of a series. It was a single moment frozen onto the canvas. At least Carl thought it was canvas, Carl wasn’t very good at identifying art materials.
The right hand side of the painting was simply a meeting of a calm body of water and sky. There were a few clouds in the distance and from the light in the sky it seemed to be late afternoon. The lack of waves meant no help in divining whether the surface on which the two men stood was a boat or a pier because the water resembled both a calm sea or an ocean at slack tide or even a lake. “Hmmm” Carl thought, “A lake. I hadn’t thought about that possibility before”.
The title offered no guidance. The artist had named the painting “Untitled no. 442”. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was 442 the number of the boat (if it was a boat) or the pier (if it was a pier) or, goddammit the weight of whatever burden it was that the man the blue coat was trying to lift?
Carl stood in the icy air considering all this and he looked at a small card below and to the right of the painting .
The painting was for sale.
Carl squinted at the figure on the card. He couldn’t afford it. Not now, anyway.
Carl turned and walked down the street. He would begin saving up to buy the painting. Put a little aside each week and take it one week at a time. Hopefully the painting would still be there when his savings reached the proper sum. Carl debated whether or not saving up for the painting was wise; perhaps he should buy it on credit now in case it went away or perhaps he should not buy it at all and gamble that it wouldn’t sell and would always be there in the gallery window awaiting his visit.
Carl coughed as the frigid air scraped the moisture from his throat. Like every other morning, he failed to reach a conclusion about what to do regarding purchasing the painting. The only difference today was the temperature.
The picture wasn’t anything remarkable in subject matter or execution. It wasn’t an abstraction that lent itself to interpretation. It was, in fact a pretty straightforward painting until you tried to figure out what the narrative was behind it; that is what moment in time was the painting trying to capture?
The painting was a picture of a man that Carl had initially presumed to be a fisherman because he appeared to be standing at the rail of a boat except you couldn’t see the boat you could only see the man, the rail and the water and another man further in the background. The men were positioned in the left side of the frame and they were standing on something brown and apparently made of wood and they were both leaning over a black railing reaching down and out of frame presumably toward the water that filled the right side of the frame.
The man in the front looked to be in his fifties, his hair was mostly but not entirely grey and his face was lined with age. Or was it age? Perhaps the man was much younger and was a lifelong fisherman and years of exposure to the abrasive elements of seagoing life had eroded his face into its current topography. The man wore a navy blue coat and black pants and you had no idea what kind of shoes he wore because those were out of frame. He was reaching over the rail and straining mightily at a rope. Attached to what? Again you couldn’t tell. Was it a fishing net? Was it a life ring thrown to a person gone overboard? Or was he on a dock pulling up gear or a crab trap or something else? The only thing you could tell for sure was that whatever was other end of that rope it was heavy, or at least heavy to the man pulling on the rope.
The man in the background was not straining. Not one bit. That man was standing and watching the struggle between the man in the foreground and the rope. You couldn’t tell much about the man in the background. He was too far away to read his expression. He appeared to be dressed entirely in gray and his left hand rested on the rail. You had no idea whether or not he was going to suddenly decide to help the man in the foreground with his struggle or whether he was content to watch. In the moment frozen into the historical record by this painting the man in the background was merely an observer and you could not discern his level of interest in what was going on.
Further complicating matters, there was no sequel panel. This wasn’t a triptych or part of a series. It was a single moment frozen onto the canvas. At least Carl thought it was canvas, Carl wasn’t very good at identifying art materials.
The right hand side of the painting was simply a meeting of a calm body of water and sky. There were a few clouds in the distance and from the light in the sky it seemed to be late afternoon. The lack of waves meant no help in divining whether the surface on which the two men stood was a boat or a pier because the water resembled both a calm sea or an ocean at slack tide or even a lake. “Hmmm” Carl thought, “A lake. I hadn’t thought about that possibility before”.
The title offered no guidance. The artist had named the painting “Untitled no. 442”. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was 442 the number of the boat (if it was a boat) or the pier (if it was a pier) or, goddammit the weight of whatever burden it was that the man the blue coat was trying to lift?
Carl stood in the icy air considering all this and he looked at a small card below and to the right of the painting .
The painting was for sale.
Carl squinted at the figure on the card. He couldn’t afford it. Not now, anyway.
Carl turned and walked down the street. He would begin saving up to buy the painting. Put a little aside each week and take it one week at a time. Hopefully the painting would still be there when his savings reached the proper sum. Carl debated whether or not saving up for the painting was wise; perhaps he should buy it on credit now in case it went away or perhaps he should not buy it at all and gamble that it wouldn’t sell and would always be there in the gallery window awaiting his visit.
Carl coughed as the frigid air scraped the moisture from his throat. Like every other morning, he failed to reach a conclusion about what to do regarding purchasing the painting. The only difference today was the temperature.
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