The Underpainting - by Tom Sime
You'll find two different interpretations of this portrait's secret on the site.
I found this rolled-up canvass in a Riverfront Boulevard (then Industrial) antique shop. When the shop keeper saw me circling it for the second time he said, "it's haunted."
He said he found it in the attic of a Highland Park estate. The canvass was rolled up and in poor condition. An artist friend of his stretched it back onto a form and touched-up the paint. He believed she was foul-tempered, as evidenced by numerous occasions of the canvass flinging itself to the floor without provocation.
I was intrigued enough to bring her home. And Tom Sime, award-winning playwright and artist, was game enough to channel her story for portrait secrets.
"I know I look pretty good. My figure was terrific then, and that dress? One of my favorites. Neiman’s? No, maybe Lester Melnick. I don’t remember. But a gem. And I do love my hair. But those eyes! I can tell you that they changed—the whole face changed—while I was having this damn thing painted. I—that is, we, my husband and I—had it done at this little portrait studio in Inwood Village, I think.
The artist was this gregarious little guy. And I was a very happy woman when he started. At the first sitting, he sketched it in, and I took a look and was very pleased. The second time, he added the first washes of color, the underpainting, he called it, and I was enchanted. I remembered all those luscious pink girls in Renoir pictures, and imagined I was to be immortalized like they were.
Then, in between the second and third sittings, I found something out about my husband that broke my heart. I don’t want to say what it was because it still hurts. I went ahead and came in to sit for the painting, as planned, like it was a dress fitting or something; I was determined to go on with my usual routines, and not let on how badly I felt.
But even though he was not a great painter—let’s face it, this is no Modigliani—I got a chill when I saw it finished. The face was different. The sorrow had crept in and sort of frozen over. The bloom had hardened into this waxy sheen. I could see my future. I was to be referred to as “well-preserved.” “Handsome.” I had turned from a princess to a queen, if not a witch.
Of course I couldn’t complain. What would I have said? “Take the unhappy out.” I wonder what the painter saw, watching me as I looked at it? I wonder if he was hurt by my reaction-- though naturally I tried to mask my feelings—or if he relished it, felt his power? He probably didn’t feel powerful very often. I remember the client after me that day was a dachsund.
This was one of those places that also sold frames, so it got properly and expensively framed, and I picked it up a few days later, and we put it on the wall and my husband admired it. But I had him hang it in his study, where I didn’t have to see it that much. I pretended it was out of modesty, but I would actually have loved to have a painting of myself that made me happy when I looked at it. I never dared to try again, though.
We stayed married until he died, though it was never quite right after that. I don’t know if he knew I knew. Maybe the portrait stared him down and signaled that I did. I don’t know if I like that idea or not. I’ve come to be proud of keeping my secrets.
After he was gone I gave the painting to a girl who lived a few doors down. She was an aspiring painter and she admired it. But I’m not surprised it ended up in a garage sale. Or that it’s come back to haunt me.
Yeah, it still smarts a bit. I have to say—embittered or not, witch or not—I was pretty damn cute. A lot more so than I am now! But I preferred myself as a work in progress. I miss that underpainting."
I found this rolled-up canvass in a Riverfront Boulevard (then Industrial) antique shop. When the shop keeper saw me circling it for the second time he said, "it's haunted."
He said he found it in the attic of a Highland Park estate. The canvass was rolled up and in poor condition. An artist friend of his stretched it back onto a form and touched-up the paint. He believed she was foul-tempered, as evidenced by numerous occasions of the canvass flinging itself to the floor without provocation.
I was intrigued enough to bring her home. And Tom Sime, award-winning playwright and artist, was game enough to channel her story for portrait secrets.
"I know I look pretty good. My figure was terrific then, and that dress? One of my favorites. Neiman’s? No, maybe Lester Melnick. I don’t remember. But a gem. And I do love my hair. But those eyes! I can tell you that they changed—the whole face changed—while I was having this damn thing painted. I—that is, we, my husband and I—had it done at this little portrait studio in Inwood Village, I think.
The artist was this gregarious little guy. And I was a very happy woman when he started. At the first sitting, he sketched it in, and I took a look and was very pleased. The second time, he added the first washes of color, the underpainting, he called it, and I was enchanted. I remembered all those luscious pink girls in Renoir pictures, and imagined I was to be immortalized like they were.
Then, in between the second and third sittings, I found something out about my husband that broke my heart. I don’t want to say what it was because it still hurts. I went ahead and came in to sit for the painting, as planned, like it was a dress fitting or something; I was determined to go on with my usual routines, and not let on how badly I felt.
But even though he was not a great painter—let’s face it, this is no Modigliani—I got a chill when I saw it finished. The face was different. The sorrow had crept in and sort of frozen over. The bloom had hardened into this waxy sheen. I could see my future. I was to be referred to as “well-preserved.” “Handsome.” I had turned from a princess to a queen, if not a witch.
Of course I couldn’t complain. What would I have said? “Take the unhappy out.” I wonder what the painter saw, watching me as I looked at it? I wonder if he was hurt by my reaction-- though naturally I tried to mask my feelings—or if he relished it, felt his power? He probably didn’t feel powerful very often. I remember the client after me that day was a dachsund.
This was one of those places that also sold frames, so it got properly and expensively framed, and I picked it up a few days later, and we put it on the wall and my husband admired it. But I had him hang it in his study, where I didn’t have to see it that much. I pretended it was out of modesty, but I would actually have loved to have a painting of myself that made me happy when I looked at it. I never dared to try again, though.
We stayed married until he died, though it was never quite right after that. I don’t know if he knew I knew. Maybe the portrait stared him down and signaled that I did. I don’t know if I like that idea or not. I’ve come to be proud of keeping my secrets.
After he was gone I gave the painting to a girl who lived a few doors down. She was an aspiring painter and she admired it. But I’m not surprised it ended up in a garage sale. Or that it’s come back to haunt me.
Yeah, it still smarts a bit. I have to say—embittered or not, witch or not—I was pretty damn cute. A lot more so than I am now! But I preferred myself as a work in progress. I miss that underpainting."