Sara Smile

"You don’t understand," she asserted. "It’s complicated and you have no idea what my life is really like."

“You mean those secret self-doubts you never talk about to anyone that make you question your massive self-confidence and lead you to think your "image" is oh-so-necessary and vital when in reality if you would open up you’d find you’re fine and don’t need it but you’re afraid to do that because that would mean a loss of control and your mistakes would be out there for all to see and everyone would find out for real if you’ve got what it takes or not?”

Sara is someone you could put in a burlap bag and she’d still be dressed to the nines. She carries that much class. But she had come to a crossroads in her life: keep her art alive or keep her image alive. So here she was explaining to me over lunch why she no longer paints. She thought her pain was special, unique in all the world! How fucking quaint. Yes, Sara, you are the first and only person to suffer from self-doubt, I could not possibly know about such things.

Art is a never-ending path, scary and deflating yet holding the promise of ultimate truth and beauty. And it can be like punching holes in the wind: what’s the point of even trying? All I can say is we are bound to search for that which is its own reward. Some are only willing to sing in the dark. Some are only willing to masquerade in the light. So much easier to be Oz behind the curtain, pulling the levers of manipulation, fooling the discontented people – and fooling yourself into perceiving a benefit.

Sara owned a shop where she sold dead items for dead money and walking away from that was too much too ask. She felt guilty that the only time she felt alive was when she painted. She made no money from it, ergo it was not a responsible thing. Or so she tried to convince herself. Her true secret doubts were not about the worth of her paintings but about the worth of her life without them. Painting’s passion pulled her away from the safety of the shop; pulled her into life.

As a compromise Sara tried painting without passion, the best of both worlds she reasoned, to paint without being pulled away. But the reactions to those paintings were minimal and apathetic. To an artist, apathy is far more fatal than hate. That’s when she found herself in a position never before in her life: at the choosing crossroads. Having reached it she took the path of self-pity’s least resistance, telling herself that the reaction from her passionless paintings proved she had no worth as a painter. Like all of us, Sara sought an argument that no one can debate.

But I knew more than what I said to Sara, seeing the obvious joy she got from her first burst of paintings and the discovery of the magic of creating life. No one else gave it much thought when she quit and she was glad to pass it off as a mere dalliance of which stopping meant no consequence. But she didn’t fool me. As much as she tried to feed herself her “inarguable argument” that her life belonged in the shop, I saw now the consuming emptiness in her eyes, pleading to escape.

Sara looked up from her artsy sandwich to see my face with an expression that could only be described as saying, “Well??” I tried not to laugh as she recognized the futility of arguing with me. I saw the wheels turning in her head: Should I use my shop argument on him? What excuse can I give that he will buy? How can I get out of this with my image intact? But her image meant nothing to me. Only she did. (Though I sweated blood I wasn’t handling all this like a jackass – as is my wont.)

Sara’s mind had come full circle: she started to say “You don’t understand” all over again but the obvious lameness of it prevented her. She merely mumbled, “Yeah, well…” and lowered her eyes back to her plate, daring me to pursue her. I was too scared for that. Who knew what inner vases I might break in my clumsiness? Ah, to be more sure of myself! I started out strong but ended the coward. Maybe there was nothing more I could do anyway?

All I know is that evening in the shop as the late rays of the winter sun peeked through the store window as Sara turned the sign to “Closed” she was free-falling in a seemingly bottomless well; no apparent way out. I knew her brow was wrinkled in concern finding stupidities in her life she’d never experienced before. Dare she paint again? Even now, after betraying it and having doubtlessly angering the art gods? What worth repentance?

But Sara I’ve already seen you - your generosity, your warmth, your wonderful sense of family. So smile Sara smile. It’s true your image hides the true you – but having seen the true you this I can say: you are love. Love that made my heart sing to the heavens, giving me life like I hadn’t known in years. All the world should know that beauty. And though flowers pulled may not be replanted, eager seeds await in your hand for life’s pursuit anew.

---------------