Art is not only in the eye of the beholder; it is also in the heart of the beholder.
My mother died when I was fourteen, and two years later I had a job as part-time janitor at the Baptist Church. It didn’t pay much, maybe 75 cents an hour but it was just 1963 so what could I expect. At Christmas I wanted to give my father something special. After all, before then the only gift I could afford was a cigarette lighter.
And it’s not like I felt I owed him for a great present from the year before. In fact, the first year after my mother died, my father came to me with his wallet open and asked, “What’s the least amount of money I can give you for Christmas to make you happy?”
“Oh, 10 dollars, I guess.”
He had an odd expression. I didn’t know if he thought I had asked for too much or I had just let him off the hook. I don’t even remember what I bought with the 10 bucks. This year, though, I wanted to give him something nice just because he was my father.
In his bedroom was a black and white photograph of my mother when she was in her late thirties. I took it out of the frame to take it to an artist. My father wasn’t very observant so he didn’t miss it. Someone recommended this guy who had a place in downtown. I walked in, and there I was surrounded by mats and barbells and paintings. It seemed he ran a combination karate school/art studio.
“How much do you have?” He was trying to sound tough.
“How about 50 dollars?”
“Make it 75.”
I said okay because I didn’t want to get beat up. On Christmas Eve I went by the karate school/art studio to pick up the painting. He had taken a simple black and white photograph and gave it a golden aura. When I brought it into the house that night I was intercepted by my brother who demanded to know what I was up to.
“It’s Dad’s Christmas present.”
“Are you stupid? He’s got a girlfriend now. He doesn’t want to be reminded of his dead wife!”
He was six years older than me, so I figured I must be wrong. I took down a picture on the living room wall and hung the painting there, hoping my father wouldn’t notice it on his way out the door on a date. A couple of weeks later, I heard my father call out my name. He was standing in the living room staring at the painting.
“Where did this come from?”
“I had someone paint it from the photograph of mother.”
He paused to look closely at it.
“Okay.”
That was the last comment ever made about the painting except for one aunt who was visiting one day and saw it.
“It’s pretty good, except the hair color. Her hair was a lighter brown. That ruins it.”
The painting stayed in the living room for thirty years until my father died and then I brought it to my house. It’s in my bedroom over the desk where I write. Every now and again I stop what I’m writing and think of that Christmas 50 years ago. I don’t know if my father ever realized it was supposed to be his present from me. My brother never apologized for denying that special moment on Christmas Day when I would have presented it to my father.
“Well, he could have gotten mad about it.” That’s the only excuse he could come up with.
Everyone in my family is dead except me, but I still have that golden aura vision of my mother and that is enough. It’s art in my eyes and in my heart.