Page 110 of Theo of Golden

Theo had painted his — Asher’s — face.

The portrait captured a hint of a grin.

A tone of thoughtfulness.

Asher took a sip of water and then opened the envelope. It contained three letters. They were all unfolded, in a small stack.

He glanced at each of them before reading.

The first, a lengthy one, was written in Theo’s unmistakable hand.

The second was in a slightly less recognizable script. The stationery was old, a bit yellowed but uncreased and well preserved.

The third was the work of a child.

Asher read them in that order, from top to bottom.

Dear Asher,

If you are reading this, it means — to use Grandmother Whitaker’s lovely phrase — that I have “crossed over.” The heaven that has been my fervent hope is now my evermore reality. My absence, however, means that I will not be here to answer any questions you might have after reading this letter.

I considered going to my grave without telling any of what I am about to share with you. But after much thought and prayer, I’m writing from a sense that, if I were you, I would want to know.

Many years ago, I received a letter from a little boy. The young fellow was hoping to be an artist someday and wanted my advice on how to reach that goal, since I was already an artist myself. I don’t know that my advice helped him at all, but I do know that he has fulfilled his dream most admirably. Through long years of hard work and a laudable commitment to excellence, he has bequeathed a legacy of beauty to the murky entity known as “the art world” and, more notably, has brought gladness to the many subjects and recipients of his work in the real world.

When I wrote a short reply to the little boy, I did so with the wish of meeting him someday, a wish that has been more than fulfilled in recent months. That little boy, named Asher, is the reason I came to Golden. You can hardly know the joy it has brought me — man to man, artist to artist, soul to soul — to finally see his face, his world, and his goodness during this past year.

I hope you will receive this portrait as a token of a colleague’s respect and admiration. I have worked on it with an awareness that, only a short distance away, you too would be in your studio — pencils, pens, and brushes in hand — pursuing the same noble end at which I have aimed… art lovingly done.

It is for others to judge which of us surpasses the other in our efforts. For me, there is no doubt about who is the master and who is the student.

The purchase and bestowals of your work in recent months have been some of the greatest pleasures of my life and, without a doubt, the most fulfilling. I daresay it has been the high point of my professional accomplishment. And so, beyond mere praise for your skill as an artist, I owe and gladly give to you my everlasting thanks for the “conspiracies of kindness” that have united us since my arrival in Golden.

This old man will someday leave the world knowing that, at least for one short season, he was an agent for good and that he used art not for his personal fame or advancement but for its highest ends — “to bestow… a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

Ellen, Kendrick, Katherine, and all the others will never again be quite what they were before they held the jewel of your portraiture in their hands for the first time. I pray that this portrait might be, for you, the same sort of blessing that yours have been to them.

Asher paused, looked up, and took notice of late-afternoon sunbeams entering the room through the high windows. His eyes moved aimlessly from one object or surface to another. They settled once again on the shimmering surface of the portrait. He looked at himself on the canvas.

At the eyes.

Their shape.

Their placement relative to nose and cheekbone. Their color.

How very much like Theo’s.

He had never noticed the subtle similarity before.

After several minutes, he took up the letter and resumed reading.

So much about you reminds me of another, of a girl I met many years ago when I was a young man in Spain. The movement of your hands when you sketch, the intensity of your eyes, and the tilt of your head when you paint all take my thoughts to that girl. Might I tell you about her?

We had both traveled to Madrid for classes at the Prado. I was the instructor, an “artist in residence.” She was a student.

Young, free spirits that we were, and reckless in ways, we studied and traveled together, drew and painted, and read about and shared lofty aspirations and ideals about art. Me, the common boy from the Douro, she the debutante from Golden. We fell glowingly in love with one another, an odd and wonderful pair. A handsome pair, too, if I say so myself.

I was drawn to her not just by her beauty, which was undeniable, but by a temperament, a spirit, a je ne sais quoi that expressed itself in tenderness toward the world around her. I recognized her, at once, as my superior.