The Portrait

The Portrait

On the crossing of Victoria and Harriet Street, stood a massive block of grey apartment building. Up in the front of each flat, balconies jutted out like open match boxes, creating a blind spot for the incoming traffic. It posed an undeniable threat to the traffic on the road. Notwithstanding, the building had much to offer in the way of charm.

It would have looked quite stark, had it not been for the indoor plants and furniture. Some balconies had synthetic black chairs placed around a white table of six. Others had two strong wooden benches to seat eight people abreast. Or maybe a couple more could squeeze in too. Commonly, all the flats had plants of many shapes and colours. Bunches of scarlet geraniums, white and yellow chrysanthemums hung over the balcony rails. Rows of vines and ferns trying to reach out to the sky. The beauty of the building, was enhanced by such motley colours of each of these early blooms. The blind spot made the traffic slow down, that’s true, but they could not take their eyes off the balconies’ vibrant beauty either. Each driver that passed by, had a peak through the windscreen gazing at it at least once.

An artist spotted the building at the right time. She took up her brush and decided to paint it in nuanced detail. From a distance, this building looked surreal. On the canvas, she brushed a uniformly cold structure first. Then vastly varied human stories as they percolated within its walls. On a rainy day, when the clouds descended heavily, the building had an awfully dull perspective which gave the building a grey, surreal look. Particularly, with an untrodden path running by it, vanishing midway out of vision. What little remained to see of the path was a few wet bamboo trees aligned on the edge of half a path; tender shoots and drooping but emerald green leaves. Either way, through rain and fall, cold and heat, the artist’s rendition made it pale or bright, as wild as mood swings. However, the structure remained solidly rooted to the ground.

When her painting was just half way through, the artist sat down cleaning her brush. And then something struck her incognito. She put the brush away and picked up cans of paint one after another of pastel green, rhubarb red, “alentejo blue” and lavender purple and splashed them vigorously on the canvas nearly suffocating the building in a sea of callous colours. She panted as she did so. Sitting down afterwards, she reflected upon this idiosyncratic behaviour on the canvas. It was a complete devastation. She painted a child’s look of horror penetrated through the riotous colours. A mother holding the child’s hand desperately trying to make a quick getaway in utter panic. The artist conjured up an image. She took up her brush and moved on to the next canvas. The hill top of Harriet Street, where she stood, gave her a vantage point to look through the workings of the minds of the residents. Freakish thoughts of mad desires were being re-shaped on the canvas. These appeared in the coloured waves of fuchsia pink, blood orange, and translucent lemon. As though she was painting the essential gases such as nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen and aurora borealis in the full spectrum of celestial colours to represent human love, rage, and sorrow.

Her eyes opened up to each apartment in a unique way. Mothers cooking at the stove; girls watering potted plants on the balconies; lovers’ entwined bodies kissing at dawn; readers engrossed in pursuit of philosophy; couples arguing over silly things, causing domestic violence and eventual break-up; children going crazy at the computer games; musicians engaged in playing pianos at evensong. All events happening at once, everyday; each on its own orbit as viewed through the windows of her mind. There was no dearth of colour as she indulged herself in colour upon colour. An inner reality of abstraction superimposed unhindered. And then the artist thought of the figurines on Parthenon of the great antiquity. Possibly, she could paint real people and bring them to life. And she did. She painted little figurines, residents of the apartments and touched them with her brush strokes heavy with colours to infuse life into them. They took their places now on the pantheon of life’s theatre. Within the cold marble of each insignificant apartment wall, human tales played out their own significant dramas. Timeless stories of happiness, and misery; one too many; each told earnestly in various ways.

The artist now heard them speak, cry in passionate outbursts as life’s veritable tales unfolded in casual conversations. “Why was she called that, “Mogli’s Mother?” a male figure, demanding to know why a certain person would be called so all through her life some 400 years ago on this very soil? Who was Mogli after all? Has anyone seen him that she should be called so? He addressed a crowd of people whose cold muteness suggested that even they did not know who Mogli was. Maybe Mogli was an illegitimate child of this mother whose identity was to remain a mystery forever so that no one would ever find him; yet Mogli would be the one to have survived the test of time in a bizarre irony, even after 400 years had passed. He would be remembered through a mother known only by that, “Mogli’s Mother” nothing more. No one ever saw this boy. What was this mother’s story after all? Mother of an unwanted child. In a 400 year old figurine, the artist was drawing a dancer, performing a dance for the Lord of a clan on a moon lit night.  With a flimsy cotton wrapped around her barely covered body, she was taken by the young Lord as his paramour. A baby boy was born over a period of time. She was now seen breast feeding it. The next depiction was of the Lord’s men marching into her hut and snatching the baby away. The helpless mother cried out in pain; the seductive dancer of the young Lord was sent to exile. Here in the new land, she called herself,“Mogli’s Mother.” To this day, she was known as “Mogli’s Mother.”

Unspoken tales long gone, found their way on a canvas of life. Tales old and new whispered only into the artist’s ears. Everyman and everywoman going about their daily chores, as they always did since the inception of human history. Old replaced by a new wave of people on this resolute earth. Within these walls of one’s own apartment though plants grew, by the minute, at every turn of the season. Balconies were seen in different shades of colours. In God’s eye-view, seen from an outer space, the artist painted everything, including changes. In one of the balconies, a change had occurred indeed! Flowers from one of the pots had died, in the event of which, a resident decided to put tomato seed in the same soil to grow a different plant in a different moment.

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Dylan Callens

About the Author...

Dylan Callens is a writer and educator living in Sudbury, Ontario. 

His debut novel, Operation Cosmic Teapot, was a resounding success. Since then, Dylan has written a number of other books, including his most recent novel, And the Cow Jumped Over the Blue Moon