Trinity
I painted my favorite bar scene about twenty years ago. It was inspired by an old photo of a father showing off his first born son to the bartender at his local bar. My family is blessed and cursed with generations of drinkers and I have done several bar scenes including fathers introducing their sons to their sins. In the original painting, the child was a new born wrapped in swaddling clothes and the overall impression was religiously iconic. One day, a patron and good friend of mine with a fondness for burly men commented on the father’s massive hands cradling his child. I suggested he follow his instincts and the painting was his.
A couple of weeks later, my friend met an artist and fell in love. When the two exchanged vows, my friend, flush from an important promotion decided to purchase a run down Victorian. The artist was a contractor by trade and he refurbished the house on his own. When the work was completed, the two had a house warming party. I walked into the living room packed with guests. I was pleased to see my painting hanging over the mantle of a grand fireplace. I thanked my friend for showing it so prominently in his new home. Suddenly a loud, nasal voice rose over the din in the room. “That kid looks like he’s wrapped in sausage casings!” I turned to see a snarling queen holding court in a corner. I felt an arm on my shoulder and turned to see my friend rolling his eyes. He offered me an all suffering smile and a stiff drink.
That was 1999. In the Summer of 2001, My friend and his lover were on a road trip to visit the artist's family in his home town of Long Beach. The highway from San Francisco shrunk to a two lane road through Santa Barbara. My friend was in the passenger seat and the artist was driving. The two of them were laughing over the artist's description of people he was going to introduce my friend to. The front tire of their SUV blew and the car swerved into oncoming traffic. A woman was killed. My friend’s seat belt snapped, his door flew open and he was thrown to his death. At the height of his life, the height of his career, finally ensconced in his own home with the love of his life, he was gone.
Life on this tiny spec in the vastness of the universe can be so randomly cruel, it’s terrifying. It can be randomly cruel in many ways as the artist was about to find out. Despite the fact that he had lost control of the car through no fault of his own, that another person had been killed, that his husband had been killed, that in an instant his life had descended into a living hell, he was arrested at the scene. The local DA charged him with negligent homicide and he found himself looking at years in prison. My friend’s family from the East Coast who had suffered a barley stifled rage ever since he had announced his love for a member of the same sex, swooped in and took possession of the body.
Their house sat vacant, their friends held a wake and we all waited underneath gathering clouds for the outcome of the trial. The jury began deliberations on a cold morning in September. The verdict in the jury room was a toss up when a clerk entered and informed the jurors that two airliners had flown into the twin towers of the World Trade center and they had both collapsed. When the jury returned to the court room, they announced a verdict of not guilty.
The artist called me when he returned to San Francisco and invited me over to the Victorian. He informed me that, in spite of the house being in my friend’s name leaving it to his family who was in the process of taking possession, the family had planned to sue him for personal loss. He threatened to counter sue for the construction costs and they backed off. One more bullet dodged. As we sat in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace under my painting, he smiled, looked up at it and asked if I would like to take possession of the boy in the sausage casings, if I ever sold it and another painting my friend had bought, it would help if I passed on what my friend had paid for them.
Needless to say, most artists don’t see much money. Hell, most people don’t see much money. A couple of years later when a friend offered me a bit less for the other painting, I called the artist and asked if that would suffice. There was no problem and when I asked if it would be alright if I altered the father and son since there had been no interest in it, his response was, “You’re the artist!”
That was many years ago. I have not since spoken to him but the painting has spoken to me. The most significant change in the painting was the boy. First thing to go were the sausage casings. Then the infant aged a bit and sat on his father’s knee. His expression morphed to a frown, then a wail, then a scream. I asked myself where the anger was coming from, realized that was a stupid question and dispensed with the rage altogether, replacing it with an open, curious, almost forgiving smile. When I raised one of the boys arms and bent the wrist, the religious reference was back and the icon came together perfectly. The Christ Child was on the knee of The Father, a modern day consecration, with an angel in the background, the bartender blessing all with a bottle of booze and completing the Holy Trinity: The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost. An overwhelming sense of peace filled me as I stepped back from the easel for the final time. I felt an arm on my shoulder. I turned to see my friend with drinks in his hands. We raised our glasses to the random joy that life on this tiny spec in the vastness of the universe can offer. It was wonderful.
For Pat.
Copyright
Richard Talbot Hill
2018
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