The Portrait, By Louise Annarino,April 7,2013
Walking through the festival my eye was drawn toward remarkably vivid paintings of several persons whom I had seen while walking though the crowd. Each was gently holding an item in his or her hands,as if offering it to the onlookers,a gentle smile lighting each painted face. Each painting was different; each deeply stirring.
It was then a man approached to explain his wife was the artist as he pointed her out to me. She was busily painting the image of the man standing before her as he told the story behind his selection of the item and its importance in his life. I felt drawn to his story as his smile widen with each sentence, settling into the gentle smile I had noticed in the other paintings. The artist had a unique ability to capture the light within her subjects as they revealed themselves to her.
The artist hung the painting to dry alongside the others,and shook hands with her subject as he turned to re-enter the throng of festival-goers. Suddenly, she turned to me. “Let’s do your portrait. I shall come to your house tomorrow to paint you. Pick out an item you believe best allows me to paint the story of your life,”she said. She added that I could have more than one item. I agreed to be ready when she arrived the next day, inviting her and her husband to stay for dinner.
The next hours were spent looking around my apartment,rifling drawers and closets to discover the one item which would tell my story,define the purpose of my life,and leave a lasting impression after I was dead and gone. It was a difficult search.
I saw my high school diploma,my bachelor and master degrees and my law degree hanging on the wall; the corded tassels from each graduation cap hanging over door knobs.It occurred to me that these were portals to a life well-lived;but, not the life itself. The same could be said for the photos of my family and all of those whom I love, the last menu from my family’s restaurant and its photo which hang above my kitchen sink, the crucifix hanging in my living room above the statue of St. Francis of Assisi which I made so many years ago before faith had been so battered,the awards for racial awareness programs I had started, and political activism photos.
As I searched I discovered dozens of items I could have used. None was sufficient; some more photogenic and “paintable” than others. Interestingly, I came across items left by others in my care for storage and safekeeping. These surprised me most of all. I had no idea the limited space in my closets had been given over to the lives of so many others. Certainly, they could not be used in the painting.They did not tell my story.
By the time the dream ended, I had found nothing to hold in my hands, or too much. Clearly, I was not ready for the artist to begin painting. Thank goodness I awoke then. I do not know what I would have done should the artist have come to paint my final portrait. I am still searching for something to hold in my hands,something which will show the viewer what my life meant, who I was, what I had to offer. I am curious. What would you hold in your hands should the painter arrive to paint your portrait ?
annarino writes 
I wasn’t able to come up with an answer on the first think-through. Going to need more time here as well. Thanks for writing this.