The Artist
I liked Kendra as soon as I met her. She looked so out of place and vulnerable, I just wanted to put my arm around her and shoo everyone away. This was her first art exhibition, and it was obvious she was uncomfortable talking to journalists. The last thing I wanted to do was worry her even more. I had arrived early, and she was already getting the third degree from one over-enthusiastic reporter. I caught her eye over his shoulder and politely interrupted the conversation to rescue her. Sniggering as she walked away, she couldn’t thank me enough. At 5’ 11” in my heels, I towered over her tiny frame, feeling more than a little cumbersome.
“Tell me about this painting,” I asked her.
“This is called Fields of Green,” she explained. “If I ever find them, I will live there.”
“It’s beautiful – I’d like to buy it,” I said, not daring to look at the price tag.
“Really?”
“I love it, it caught my eye the moment I walked in. I probably can’t afford it, but I really do want it.”
She turned and looked at me, studying my face as I gazed at the picture. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see a landscape of promise. The different shades in the fields represent the seasons, each blending into the next – complementing each other, encouraging them to be better, brighter and stronger. I think I’d like to live there too, in that little house down at the front. Imagine seeing that view every day. If you ever find this place, I hope you’ll let me know.” I joked.
“I will,” she laughed. “In the meantime, you can look at it every day – it’s yours.”
“Really? Thank you!”
“No, thank you,” she said, instantly looking more confident.
We agreed on a price, which she insisted went very much in my favour, and swapped numbers. Her career took off swiftly after that first exhibition, and she was soon hosting them the world over. We saw each other infrequently, though, but kept in touch over the years, the occasional phone call, but mostly by letter. It was five years before we met in person again.
I barely recognised her, and I was struck by how different she looked. Her hair was still the same, long and dark, a richer shade than I remembered. It was swept back from her face and hung halfway down her back like a robe. No longer was it a curtain of privacy. She had a glow of confidence about her, somehow making her appear taller.
Over the years, my friendship with Kendra continued. Sometimes long periods would pass without correspondence or meetings. I was successful in my career, I married and had a family, time ticked away as it does, a constant speed yet somehow always too fast. I moved house many times, but wherever I lived, my favourite painting always had the same spot – the largest wall in the living room. I thought of Kendra often, wondering if she was still on the quest to find those fields as she travelled the world.
One day, I received a postcard from her, she had moved to France, and would I like to visit her? I flew over one weekend, excited to see her and her new home. It was indeed beautiful, but I knew the views were not the ones she longed for.
She was different somehow; smaller, more fragile-looking. Her hair was greying, as was mine, but despite only being a few years between us, she seemed so much older than me. Gone was the confidence that I had witnessed on our last meeting.
She showed me her art room; her work had changed over the years, she painted fewer landscapes and more portraits now. People she had met, or wanted to meet, as well as many self-portraits. One in particular caught my eye.
“This is amazing, Kendra, but you look so sad.”
“That’s an old one,” she said quietly. “I don’t remember feeling that sad when I painted it.”
“Old? It looks like you now.” I said, looking at the date in the bottom corner. “This is over thirty years old, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“But, the way you’re holding your left hand, you didn’t suffer from arthritis back then?” Only in the last five years or so had she told me how painful her joints were, and she often sat holding her left wrist.
“I guess it was some sort of premonition,” she joked. “Come on, let’s eat.”
We sat for hours on the back porch of her new home. Sipping wine and snacking on bread and cheese long into the night. As well as I knew my dear friend, I couldn’t help but feel as though there was something she wasn’t telling me. We spoke of the painting, and she was pleased to hear I still admired it every day. She told me she still hoped to find those fields of green.
A few days later, as she waved me off at the station, a flutter of sadness washed over me. The train pulled away, and I watched her shrink too quickly into the distance.
Two weeks later, I received a letter from her solicitor informing me of Kendra’s passing. Cause of death, unknown. Kendra knew, I felt sure. I walked through to my lounge and stared at the painting. The afternoon light was shining directly upon it from the window opposite, and I noticed something in the corner. Beside the little house was a tiny figure that I had never seen before. Small, with long grey hair, arms reaching out to embrace the landscape. It hadn’t been there before. Despite the little shiver that went down my back, I smiled through my tears. Kendra had found her fields of green at last.
Photo by Smithsonian on Unsplash