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Mike is painting my portrait. He stands in front of me squinting past to the canvas at the end of the hall as if scanning the horizon for a landmark to take a bearing.
He was a Physical Education teacher before he switched to art.
“I thought I’d miss being active,” he says as he sets up his brushes and bowls of linseed oil, turpentine and oil paint. “But with this technique I keep moving.” Each time, after he sizes me up, he strides down the hall to the canvas. The kids who stop to watch know to stand clear. I can hear the brushstrokes go on. Perched on a stool, I focus on a photograph pinned to the wall opposite me. I keep my chin up, head tilted slightly. Eyes on me, he signals whenever I forget and glance away. I watch him seeing me. Hear the sure dab of him mixing color in the plastic bowls.
We take a break half way through the hour sitting. Long enough to turn around and see myself looking back from the six foot square canvas taped to the wall.
“You’re working on the eyes today.”
“I started taking painting lessons when I was twelve.” He tells stories the way he paints. Sure, strong phrases, with pauses as he finds the memory he wants. “From a Dutchman. He liked to say the eyes are the mirror of the soul.”
I thought about that for a while. Mirrors. Not windows. Reflections. I wonder if the…
