Page 105 of Theo of Golden

Zila died from injuries sustained when he fell from the balcony of his residence. An investigation of the incident is ongoing.

Zila’s longtime personal assistant and gallerist, Anais Metoir, in a phone conversation with this writer, stated that, “I spoke with Zila last week. He was doing very well. Contrary to the public perception of him as a tragic, lonesome, brooding artist, he was happier perhaps than I have ever known him to be, certainly happier than at any time since his daughter died. He was fully invested in the art of living. The world has lost a giant. I have lost a very dear friend, and I will miss him terribly.”

Funeral arrangements have not yet been announced.

A sidebar to the article contained a final item of information about Theo.

A spokesperson at the Zila Gallery stated that the last paintings known to have been done by the artist, completed earlier this year, was a six-canvas collection called “The Blues of Golden.” It includes images of a hat, a pair of shoes, a pill bottle, a feather, and a riverscape. The collection is soon to be on display at the gallery.

CHAPTER 60

To be clear, few citizens of Golden actually knew Theo.

His local fame was confined to the downtown district, though the driver of bus number 37 and members of the hospital staff had their own stories to tell about the good-natured visitor. The wider community learned about him after his death, through newspaper and television stories, social media, and gossip. Goldenites were surprised and curious that such a man had selected their town for his residence and had dwelt so quietly in their midst.

How could someone of such renown — and why would someone of such renown — choose their city? And how did he escape their notice? How, in a world where every hand holds a camera, could he achieve anonymity for an entire year?

Among those who knew him, even those who knew him merely as a cheerful presence along Broadway, he was remembered not as a celebrated artist or collector but as an acquaintance, neighbor, and friend. On sidewalks up and down the Promenade, people shared stories and reminiscences of Theo’s year in Golden. From those fragments, they constructed an image that was nothing short of mythic.

Those who knew him best held their peace and declined to be interviewed or drawn into the mob of the carelessly inquisitive. Even Katherine Lesker, whose journalistic instinct was to write, kept her silence in reverence for Theo’s memory and out of respect for the promise she had made to him at the Fedder, a promise from which she was now most certainly freed.

There were, not surprisingly, insistent, professional writers — bloggers, art aficionados, reporters from New York papers and magazines, an international journalist or two, and even, early on, a documentary filmmaker — who pursued whatever rumor or lead they could find in hopes of telling Theo’s story. Eventually, perhaps, they would pierce the inner ring of his friends and get the details for which they yearned, but in the immediate aftermath of Theo’s death, silence reigned.

More than one reporter tried to approach Ellen while she was a patient at the hospital following the attack. When Tony, who rarely left her side during the week and a half she was there, learned of their intrusion from Mrs. Van Blarcum, he searched them out, dressed them down with an eruption of curses, and swore to invoke every means, legal and not so, to protect the woman.

And “hell no, I won’t talk to you! Get your ink-wasting ass out of here.”

In time, he might soften, but not yet. He kept a close eye on Ellen.

As Theo would have wished.

Members of the press were pleased, accordingly, to learn that a memorial service had been planned for Theo at St. James. Perhaps there, they would be able to harvest information for an interesting story with anecdotes and reminiscences. In all fairness, people around the world, for good reason, wanted to know about the famed artist’s death.

Theo’s body had already been flown to France and buried beside his daughter’s in a private ceremony near Paris. Mr. Ponder had worked and would continue to work with Theo’s lawyers and business associates on a number of estate matters, including the funeral. But he did not, and would not ever, violate Theo’s confidence, though he, as much as anyone, was convinced of the world’s need to know Theo’s story.

On the evening of the memorial for Theo — two weeks after his fall, at seven o’clock on a Thursday, the precise hour of so many of his bestowals — the sanctuary at St. James was filled to overflowing. Many members of the church, ones who had seen him regularly on Sunday mornings, were in attendance. Business owners, students, waiters and waitresses, the homeless, and the merely inquisitive filled the pews.

By an arrangement that had somehow been made and communicated to the affected parties, everyone who had received a portrait from Theo was invited, as if they were family, to sit in the front rows. Some brought their portraits with them. A handful of others who had not yet received a portrait — Shep, Tony, Mr. Ponder, Lamisha, Mrs. Van Blarcum — were also placed front and center. Ellen, by special dispensation, was allowed to bring her bicycle to the front of the sanctuary and park it beside the pew. She was still feeble, bruised, and bandaged from the incident at the Fedder. Many were surprised that she was well enough to attend.

But even in her delicate state, and even in the company of her Noble Invention, she exuded a tender dignity as she joined the procession of the portrait people.

A sign at the entrance of the church building, politely worded but clear in its stern intent, instructed members of the press, local and not, to respect those in attendance and to remain at the back of the sanctuary.

And to all, press and friends alike, a notice was prominently posted:

In honor of this sacred place and today’s memorial, we ask that there be no photography or recording of the service. Before entering the sanctuary, please turn off all cell phones, recording devices, and cameras, and place them out of sight. Violators will be removed from the service.

As if to emphasize the sincerity of the warning, the church had retained and stationed uniformed policemen at the entrance and in the building’s vestibule.

Everyone was a bit surprised and pleased (at least most were) that for over an hour, no phones rang, no cameras clicked, and no other sign of technological trespass occurred. A sense of solemnity prevailed throughout the service.

While people entered the building, the organist played a soft, seamless medley of hymns. A reverent hush was observed by the congregation, even among the writers and reporters in the back of the room.

The radiance of the evening sun through stained glass dappled the sanctuary. The slow movement of color would have been undetectable from minute to minute, but over the course of the hour, patches of red, lavender, melon, gold, and emerald shifted kaleidoscopically across the room.

The sun was a brush; the west window its palette; the floor, walls, ceiling, and congregants its canvas; an angel somewhere, the artist.

The tulip gardens of Holland would have blushed in the presence of such sublime color and light. The effect of filtered rays, muted tints, and deepening shadows was perfectly suited to the occasion commemorating an old artist.