The eastern coast of the United Kingdom is, more often than not, done more justice in description than it may deserve. This is due in no small part to painters and photographers who, as a breed, are often fickle. Their aesthetic leanings inevitably lead them on a hunt for the classic beauty which ultimately culminates in the artist settling on the “quiet marina” or the “bustling port”, images that saturate the halls of art galleries and museums around the world. These products highlight the extremes of staged brilliance without as much as a nod or acknowledgement to the more common and natural surroundings.
In true fact, and in direct opposition to these portrayals, the genuine ocean border of the eastern United Kingdom is composed of rock and stone; jagged and curt edges plunging unswervingly to a blue expanse below. There is rarely a gentle glide or patient descent, not often a stretch of white sand crawling idly into the water’s depths, nor are there frequently picturesque hamlets or salt-covered fishing towns at every stop across the meandering coast. A better approximation would be a staggeringly flat cliff. A gaping wall, worn smooth by a lifetime of wind and rain and running for miles in each direction, stretching out into an unimaginable distance under the water’s surface until finally arching in a slight quarter-circle to the true earth below. This, however, is not the scene chosen to be immortalized by our visual masters.
Anton Sasquara lived on just such an exemplary stretch of English coastline, a model cliff face if ever there were one. Not far from the island of Saint Florian, just across a modest channel in fact, the senior Sasquara resided in a lighthouse positioned just short of the cliff’s edge. The lighthouse stood alone on the coastline, bereft of any trees or small cottages that might dress it up. It served, as most lighthouses are wont to do, as a deterrent to any ship that might attempt to smash itself into the stone wall below.
Sasquara was hired in his twenty-second year of life by the residents of Saint Florian to operate the lighthouse and to coordinate passengers across the causeway in the event of a low tide. However, as the operation of the lighthouse involved the singular action of flipping a switch at sundown and the low tide, being affected by a tidal phenomenon, was curiously infrequent, occurring only once every four months; there was very little work to be done over the course of the year. In response to this startlingly endless amount of leisure time Anton Sasquara realized the need for a diversion to fill his waking hours, time spent in anticipation of the fading horizon.
His first foray, encompassing five years total, was in the field of carpentry. While both challenging and gratifying, Anton found that with the lack of adequate tools and the complete absence of tree life he would never be properly supplied for the craft. In the subsequent five years, following a brief interaction with an Indian cotton farmer vacationing to Saint Florian, he trained as a tailor. The cotton baron arranged for reams of canvas to be sent to the lighthouse in exchange for regular notifications from Sasquara on the status of the low tide entrance to the island. While the issue of material supply had been resolved, the canvas proved much to stiff to work into any functional design and the hobby was eventually abandoned. With the abundance of canvas Sasquara began to stretch his imagination for another activity that might incorporate the inflexible material. He found it in a passing recommendation by a traveler wandering through the area en route to Eyemouth. The man was an artist, a painter in oils more specifically, and was traveling to immortalize the idyllic eastern port city. He persuaded Anton to take up painting and, in exchange for several yards of canvas, left him with a small instructional book and all the oil paint that he could spare before continuing on his way.
Anton diligently studied the text, learning the fine brush technique, the intricacies of color mixing, and the skill of using his oils sparingly so as to preserve them until he was able to set up a regular supplier in London. Over time Anton discovered a distinctive air of calm and relaxation that he experienced when engaging in the activity. He felt drawn to the canvas daily, more so than he had ever experienced with any previous diversion. In painting Anton had found his niche. The fixation entranced him and time at the lighthouse soon became inexplicably intertwined with action, melting from one image to the next. Every detail became more precise, every brushstroke more intentional as each canvas came and went. Every color spread brighter as the days began to race to a close. Rough sketches bloomed into blossoming flowers as weeks fell into months fell into years.
F O R T Y Y E A R S
Anton Sasquara stirred under the gaze of the midmorning sun. A warm breeze rolling through the outer fields had nudged the stately curtains from their guard, heaving waves of light into the late sleeper’s shady cave. He drew the sheets above his head and burrowed into the darkness of his pillow, but the breeze would not abate and the sunlight flickered impatiently, demanding immediate entrance to the keeper’s hovel. The aging lighthouse man, now much too awake to even pretend to sleep, pulled himself from beneath the covers and placed both feet on the wooden floor below. The boards were still cool in the places the sun had not yet reached and they squealed as Anton ambled about the room, stretching his sleep weary limbs. He drew the curtains wide, letting the sunlight spill into every curve of the circular room. Water sparkled in the washbasin below the window sill, projecting wild points of light across Anton’s ragged face as he scrubbed the sleep from his shaggy visage.
Years of watching had taken their toll on the once young keeper who now, seventy-two, could see the age as much as he felt it. His tan skin which had once been smooth and solid now hung loose from its scaffold, but the integral features still remained; a round and curvy nose, friendly eyes tucked beneath bushy brows, and a slight cleft chin. A rich luster also lingered in his black hair. It was short on the sides and left long on top having been cut for comfort in the summer months. Altogether his features projected a curious knowing, as if he had been told the secret to happiness in a language he couldn’t quite understand.
The window’s view above the washbasin looked out on a vast field of tall grass, a fortress of fauna surrounding the lighthouse on all sides. As Anton dried his dripping face the waving stalks caught his eye, just one of the many subtle reminders of his virtual imprisonment on the lonely cliff side. He quickly turned from the window and, after pulling on a pair of brown, cotton trousers and slightly off-white, soft-collar shirt, plodded down the winding staircase running along the edge of the curved room.
The lighthouse was divided into four separate floors. The structure was designed in compartments to provide its keeper with an evenly balanced space for working and living. The top floor of the lighthouse or, more appropriately, the roof housed the rotating Fresnel lamp and the entire electrical unit responsible for its operation. The lamp had originally been lit using kerosene and a magnified flame, but was replaced just before Anton was taken on. The switch to turn the lamp on and off ran down to the third floor which seemed to be the sole purpose of the third floor in the original construction of the tower. Anton had converted, or rather had extended the function of the upper room to act as his painting studio. The second floor, being the coolest in the summer and warmest in the winter, acted as the bedroom and bath. Finally, the first floor, consisting of a cupboard, counter, small table, and one chair, was the kitchen and sitting room all in one.
After preparing a light breakfast of tea and toast with jam, Anton moved his sitting room, the singular wooden chair, outside to enjoy the meal in the glowing morning sun. He positioned the chair to face the ocean and as he nibbled his toast and sipped the tea from his bone china mug the aged keeper sat back to take in the view about him. The lighthouse, in addition to the surrounding high grass, was framed by an ancient wooden fence running around the structure and down the hill, following the road from the top of the cliff to the water’s edge. The road wound across the steep hillside just north of the lighthouse, gliding and curving until finally running directly into the sea. This, of course, was the causeway only visible at low tide that led to the island of Saint Florian, but the sight was still mildly disconcerting to passers-by not accustomed to the peculiar tidal phenomenon.
The once-white, wooden fence following the meandering road to the coast hadn’t been painted in decades and had subsequently turned a squeamish shade of greenish-brown, a mixture of natural wood color coated with algae remnants from the sea air. Anton resented the corroding structure, but felt little motivation to correct what he saw as an endless and idle occupation, a job no sooner started than needing to be started again. In fact, Anton resented quite a bit more about his country lifestyle than the simple, questionable status of the fence. He had grown tired of the endless fields of grass and their predictable bob and weave. He had become utterly exhausted with the rocky coastline in its suspended state of decay. He could hardly bear to look upon the broad landscape; rolling into the horizon, depicting a simple and sedentary portrait from season to season, and leaving the seasoned painter with little subject and, worse, even less inspiration. In truth, the only reason he hadn’t already packed his bags for bigger and brighter futures was the same reason he had been so quick to accept the keeper’s position fifty years ago. It was, and always had been, Saint Florian.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The island across the modest channel provided all the inspiration that Anton Sasquara had ever required in his five decades of lighthouse keeping. It had begun with the simple delights, the tightly cropped streets bending out of sight into the puzzle-piece buildings, the magnificent and finely crafted barricade wall barely suited to repel a minor flock of wayward pigeons, the breathtaking abbey of Saint Florian, rising from the middle of the city as a mother standing amidst her children, pulling them close for protection. Over time these general endearments developed into more complex and subtle flavors. The recognition of a slight rise in the island landscape from its western to eastern shore, affording a more substantial view of the city’s architecture and organization. The particular and precise design in the city brickwork, from its lowest path to the highest tower. The fantastic shadows cast throughout the day onto every alley wall, side street, and, finally, onto the turbulent sea below. As the years drew on Anton began to see through an even grander lens to the raw beauty inside these minutiae of his obsession. He longed to paint the most majestic picture of the island, to give his passion substance. And so, after spending his initial years in mastering the techniques and tools of the art, he began the great work.
The first products were sweeping dramatizations with furious colors, images beyond reality portraying the city in its extremes. Anton infused every canvas with the extent of his emotional capacity, but, with the finishing touch, it never appeared to be quite enough. The desire to do more, to show more, crept through his waking thoughts, invading his idle hours. He thought long on the elusive detail, the missing piece that would complete the perfect portrayal of his beloved island.
Over time the solution began to present itself in a most peculiar fashion. Anton reasoned that the force of his mental image might be concealed in one of its singular components and not in its presentation overall. This nagging doubt led him to begin reducing his work to its fundamentals. He would subtract, removing from the impression what he had imagined to be and instead painting only what appeared through the window. The precise depictions became powerful, conveying a sense of time and place that was much more potent and enduring than any of his previous efforts. The more exact the illustration became the more Anton could feel the mood and sensation come alive in the way he had always intended it to.
The vision of the island never ceased to excite. Regardless of the time of day or particular season there was always some new detail or unrealized shadow that had gone unnoticed, some integral, provocative facet missing from the previous incarnation. However, as time drew on, something was still missing. The inexplicable component drove the artist deeper into the process of replication. Portrayal of beauty gradually gave way to obsessive reproduction. And so it went those many years.
F O R T Y Y E A R S
The morning shimmer had morphed into an early afternoon daze as Anton Sasquara finished his meal and pulled his breakfasting chair back inside the white-washed lighthouse. He shook the bread crumbs from the plate on which his breakfast had previously been and, content with cleanliness of the kitchen, began the climb to his workplace two floors above.
The studio was a functioning oxymoron, a regimented chaos of organization. Empty canvases leaned side by side under the ascending staircase, farthest away from the spatters and sprays of the artist’s chair. Haphazard stacks of finished works lay not far away, each begun with a distinct and purposed vision in mind, but all ultimately decided as still wanting. Two wooden cabinets, ghosts of a former pastime, lay on the northern edge of the room, spotted with several layers of aging paint and home to the whole of the artist’s supply. The counters were loaded; glass jars filled with crusty brushes in dirty water, wooden box lids straining to contain the contents of bulky and inflexible paint tubes, several palettes of different shapes and sizes in varying states of stain. The floor of the studio was a work in its own right, a circular portrait directing the eye from the outside-in to the climactic center of the room, a glorious explosion of fantastic blobs and splotches of paint beneath a mighty easel. The great wooden vessel stood just left of the center of the room, allowing for a sight line to the easternmost window, one of the four great casements in the studio. Each window, by design, faced a true direction, the eastern portal providing the most obvious outlook on Saint Florian bobbing in the water below.
As Anton reached the third floor he scowled at the blank, white canvas already taunting him from the easel. Hanging behind it, over the two utility cabinets, was a stunning interpretation of the island city, unobtrusively lit. This was the most recent and, in each case, the most disappointing incarnation. The latest work was always hung in the same place, serving, positively, as an aide in the reproduction of fine detail and, less-positively, as a deterrent to past mistakes and deficiencies.
Anton moved to the wooden cabinets and prepared the collection of instruments he would call upon for the coming work. After deciding upon his colors he spewed them across the palette, plucked several brushes of varying size and degree from the dirty water jar, and glided over to the prominent chair in front of the faceless canvas.
The complex painter’s chair had undergone several transformations from the four-legged, flat-bottomed stool it had once been. The legs had been heightened with the addition of four, inch-long pegs to allow for better reach on a larger canvas. A stuffed, leather cover had been nailed to the hard wooden seat bottom and a reclining back and sturdy arm rests had all been added to accommodate the artist in his extensive sitting hours. It rotated on an oiled swivel, allowing for a change in angle should it be required. It was a practicing intellectual’s throne.
Beginning in his usual fashion, Anton sat back in his artist’s recline and, through the window, began to study his subject. At first he tried not to focus on any one detail in particular, but on the entire scene, judging the broad effect or the ‘initial ripple’.
Anton considered this first viewing to be the most powerful aesthetic moment, as forceful as the first brush against still water, an initial ripple unsurpassed by any subsequent waves.
The next step involved the dissection of the image into its most general categories: the abbey, the surrounding city, the visible earth, the water below. The organization of each surface layer was just the beginning.
The process would slowly evolve in sequence, further dissections and classifications, until every component was broken down to its basic level. Layers and layers of detail were mentally dissected and catalogued.
This continued until every aspect was exposed, every piece and part labeled and accounted for. A passing shadow on a dusty brick. A flag waving in the ocean breeze. A glass of water, three-quarters full, on a café table messy with the remnants of a hasty lunch. Only after every element had been fully considered would Anton begin to paint.
This having been done, the painter reached for his palette and brush and leaned slowly forward. He gazed into the white depth of the canvas, looking for the inspired place to begin. There was no process in this decision, only instinct. The beginning would come as a feeling, an impulse based in intuition.
Suddenly, he had it. Neatly tucking the hair of the brush in his mouth, Anton formed its sharpened tip in exchange for a bitter tang. The brush darted to the palette, lightly dabbing a dark tan. Anton took one last, furtive look out the window, glancing at the subject before crossing his hand towards the canvas.
His actions were tight and quick, his wrist shifting nimbly in reaction to the fluid nature of the oil. The brush swept and stroked across the surface, shaping and molding, until finally snapping back, finished. The work was barely noticeable, but, upon inspection, instantly recognizable. To the left of center a small patch of crooked bricks had come to life, characterized by their years of perfect, uneven existence.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The work had begun and, as many dabblers in the serious work of creation will attest, the work had been done.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The sun had begun its descent from the daily vault it would make over the lighthouse, casting familiar, late afternoon shades throughout the third floor of the artist’s tower. Anton Sasquara sipped at a small cup of tea as he gazed at the state of his working canvas. An astounding microcosm had appeared following the conception of the simple brick floor. The crooked plot of bricks had transformed into a larger patio which subsequently sprouted a café table paired with several wire chairs arranged hastily in front of a classic shop face. The painted café was mostly windows with a thin door on the left being held open by a thin wedge. The see-through glass was inlaid with an intricate design, most notably the moniker of ‘LILLY’S’ in a fine script recognizable only in second glance. The door opened to a bustling scene of life: heavy feet on wooden floors, raised arms and wide grins, colorful bottles and steaming mugs filling the length of the well-worn countertops. The tiny shop hinted at a neighboring partner, but was currently alone, surrounded with the vast potential of emptiness in every direction.
The artist stood across the room looking from subject to product in manic appraisal. He drank from the bottom of his mug as the shadows of the room grew longer and larger across the studio floor. Anton turned to the bright window behind him, squinting into the sun’s western descent. As the great ball of light crashed into the side of the earth the sky lit up in magnificent orange and blue hues. As the effect began to wane the keeper’s arm reached for a small box attached to the wall. He opened the cover of the box and flipped the thick, black switch inside, sending a considerable hum running up to the machine above. A tremendous light swung across the sun’s horizon, trading hands with the giant for the evening shift. The light spun steadily as a warning and reminder as artist became keeper in the conventional circadian rhythm. And so it was and so it had been for many, many years.
F O R T Y Y E A R S
It was an uncharacteristically stormy evening in the early days of May when a young travel writer from America found himself at the bottom of a very steep hill leading up to the old English lighthouse. He had come in search of passage to the island of Saint Florian, having been directed to the hill or, rather, to the lighthouse or, more specifically, to the keeper within who was said to be held responsible for such accommodations. The Indian cotton farmer who had provided this information was also very clear in his emphasis on the time of the arrival, down to the day and hour, which he had said was crucial if one hoped to reach the island at all.
The journalist; tired and weather beaten, huffed and puffed his way up the hill, the climbing path made muddy and slick by the torrential downpour. After several minutes of what an observer would note as a daring and somewhat heroic ascent, he arrived on the thick concrete slab that served as a doorstep to the white watchtower overlooking the sea.
The young man, whose clothes were now thoroughly dirtied and soaked to the core, took a moment to catch his breath and then gently rapped his middle knuckle against the lighthouse door. After several minutes and no response he knocked again and for the second time recieved no reply from within. The clouds roared overhead and the wind began to pick up, sending the slender man staggering for his balance in despair of rolling to the bottom of the grimy mound. In a final fit of frustration the traveler, no longer concerned with formal etiquette, beat his hands savagely against the heavy wooden door. With no immediate response he leaned against the white-washed surface next to the door, yearning for a response as the rain, almost mockingly, poured down harder than before. Suddenly, a line of light blinked into the night from the now unbolted door. An ancient silhouette peeked out through the slight crack afforded by the taught door chain.
“What do you want?” croaked Anton in a growling baritone through a thick French accent.
“Someplace dry!” cried the journalist, “Would you let me in?”
The old man eyed the sopping man on his doorstep suspiciously. Without a word he slowly began to close the door on the desperate man.
“Please, no!” shrieked the man on the outside, but it was too late. The door had shut. The young man turned and clenched his face and fists in frustration. He scanned the rolling hills, but saw not a single alternative for shelter or protection from the extraordinary cloudburst. He wearily took his first step of defeat off the concrete slab, his foot sinking deeply into the mud lake that lay hidden just beneath the thick grassy weave on the precipitous knoll.
“You’ll have to leave that boot outside,” grumbled a low voice from behind. The soggy man, pleasantly surprised to hear any remark at all, turned swiftly to find the door, which had been shut tight, now standing wide open. It was an ironically square frame for the crooked stature of its aged resident.
“I’ve just swept up and I’ll suffer no stranger to tread mud over my clean floor.”
The young man quickly obliged, tossing both his boots to the side of the entrance before bounding inside. After an introduction and declaration of intention Anton loaned the dripping man, who called himself Theodore, a set of dry clothes which were found to be; in the process of his trying them on, a size too small. However, the young journalist, eager to please and thankful for the generosity, kept quiet and stuffed himself inside the tight-fitting shirt and pants. After wringing out his soaking clothes and hanging them over a series of chair backs to dry, Theodore joined Anton on the third floor where he had been invited for evening tea.
No lights had been lit, but upon entrance Theodore found the third floor room clearly outlined by the massive spinning beam overhead, the great lantern casting an ambient glow through the thick floorboards of the ceiling. Anton was in the middle of the room facing the east window in an oddly crafted chair. Next to him sat a short-legged and slightly slanted table on which had been laid out the proper instruments for serving and taking tea. On the opposite side of the peculiar tea table sat an empty and inviting chair, presumably pulled out for the visiting guest. Theodore wandered over to his intended seat, observing the contents of the room as he passed through it. The stacks of paintings along the wall, the unfinished canvas on the easel, the newest work on the wall; each caught and held his eye as he toured through the creator’s room. He had nearly reached his chair when the old man’s low voice caught him by surprise once again.
“In France,” began Anton, his gaze fixed squarely in the direction of the eastern window, “they don’t drink tea. Or, at least, I didn’t. Not until I came here.” Theodore stood perfectly still in the dim room as the old man continued. “No, until I came here I had only heard about tea. But not about the customs, or the brands, or even the different types of tea – just how much of it they drink here. Six cups a day, on average. Six cups on average. That means some people drink more.”
The old man suddenly produced a small porcelain cup from the shadow of his lap and took a long sip, holding the container snuggly by its tiny handle with the pudgy clamp of his thumb and forefinger.
“So sit. Drink,” growled Anton, gesturing to the empty mug on the table, “You haven’t even started yet. By some Englishmen’s measurements you have quite a few cups to finish.”
Theodore, interpreting the invitation as more of a command, snapped from his frozen position and quickly took his place in the chair next to the crooked tea table. He poured himself a cup from the scalding hot teapot and, after adding a splash of milk for taste, leaned back to join his host in staring out through the eastern window.
The sight was extraordinary. Lights twinkled in the city on the sea, outlining every angle and curve of its fantastic skyline. It appeared as if an ancient castle, forgotten by its own time and culture, had sprung up from the depths of the sea, an artifact from a decadent past attempting to find its place in the contemporary flow of the world.
“Quite a view,” hazarded the travel writer as he sipped gingerly from his steaming mug.
Anton responded with a low grumble, a tactic he often employed to acknowledge a statement without communicating any genuine enthusiasm. Theodore, unfazed by the dismissive gesture, pressed on.
“Did you paint all of these?” he queried, eliciting another affirmative grunt from the aged Frenchman.
“They’re quite good,” he began, determined to engage the artist in conversation, “I always wanted to learn how to paint, but could never quite muster the patience for it. That seems to be everyone’s story though, you know? Tried and failed, so why try again, right? Writing always came so much more naturally to me, so it seemed to be the proper path to take. Less time in practice and more time in application, I guess. Though, I imagine it was the same for you and painting, huh? I mean, by the looks of things.”
“Actually, no,” replied Anton, surprising his guest with the substance of his words. Seeing the confusion on Theodore’s face and delighting in his subversion of expectation, he took a moment and plucked a wooden pipe from his pants pocket before continuing. “In fact, painting has been, by far, the least intuitive undertaking of my entire life.”
“Oh,” mumbled Theodore, slightly dejected, “how so?”
“Well,” started the aged keeper as he lit his pipe, its flame flickering wildly in the darkness, “the painter is in constant battle. In an unprovoked conflict with his mind. He is forever evaluating his decisions in an effort to capture the heart of the original intent.”
Anton took several puffs from his smoldering pipe and continued.
“Take this tea kettle sitting between us. If I were to paint this I would not only have to consider the size and shape of the container, but also my feelings about the teapot. The subject in my mind and the subject at hand become two entirely separate entities. They are at war with one another. The moving beauty being in the structure of the physical object, that which is seen by the observing world, and that which my mind will inevitably attempt to distort and pervert through layers and layers of deeply ingrained filters. The artist’s struggle is not with technique or style. It is in the reproduction of the genuine article, devoid of the mind’s embellishments. An image of intuition wrought through the pain of complex evaluation and discernment, so pure and fundamental that the final product appears to have never been created, but to have always existed, waiting to be noticed.”
The room floated in a dim haze, permeated with the smell of freshly burnt tobacco. Theodore sat in a cloud, wrapped up in the smoke and words emitting from the locale of the old man’s pipe. He gazed absently at the freshest portrait that hung next to the window of their focus.
“Well, it appears that you’ve done it,” started Theodore, casually pointing to the framed work, “It’s beautiful! A dead-on match to Saint Florian.”
“Beauty? What do you know of it?” snapped Anton bitterly, his eyes now turned and fixed on the young travel writer, “You can barely make out the island in this darkness, or the painting for that matter, and even then you’ve not been nearly close enough to either of them to make a suitable comparison. If you had you would see that it is not beauty that eludes me. I am no longer searching for beauty.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not, I mean, I didn’t quite say…it’s just…that isn’t what I meant!” stammered the young man, desperate to make amends, “I just meant that you captured the moment so well!”
“That’s exactly the problem!” cried the old man, popping up from his seat and shuffling quickly towards the city rendering. He stopped at the right side of the painting and ushered the young writer to the opposite edge.
“Now, look,” directed the old man, his words hinting at enthusiasm, “Do you see the chimney top? How it leans so far to the side? It is due to a misplaced beam in the frame of the house. I have been there. I have seen it. Still, I cannot paint it properly. If you compare the two in the daylight you will see the difference. I have spent hours, days, weeks staring at this chimney, studying it from every angle. In every painting it goes wrong. It is too straight or too angled or there are too many bricks. It is always changing in my mind, so that I am continually capturing the moment and never defining it.”
The old man’s words dwindled to a tired croak as he glared at the painted smokestack.
“And that is just the beginning. There are hundreds more just like it. A cracked window or a crooked sidewalk. So many distortions that when I finish, the completed canvas hardly bears any resemblance to the city I see out the window. It is mystifying.”
Anton turned away from the portrait and hobbled over to the eastern window. Theodore stood still; his eyes scanning the contents of the painting in search of any imperfections. After several minutes and little discovery he relented and followed his host to the window. Anton sat on the sizeable granite sill puffing heavily from his pipe. In the moon’s eye he appeared as an ancient wizard, a great mind laden with tremendous power and heavy concern.
“If the chimneys and sidewalks bother you so much why not change focus?” queried Theodore, “Find a new subject.”
Anton hung his head, expelling a tired sigh.
“There is no other subject,” grumbled the tired keeper as he gestured around the room, “This is no subject.”
Theodore followed Anton’s gesturing hand as it panned across the room, tracing the lack of possibilities.
“There is no life in this place. I hardly live life in this place. The granite walls and fields of grass. They are tired and empty. There is no story to tell about them. No interpretation. They have been interpreted. No, all that is left is Saint Florian.”
Both men sat quietly for several minutes. The thundering storm had dwindled to a whispering mist, jacketing the outside in a damp fizzle. The lights of Saint Florian began to fade until gradually, house by house, window by window every light bulb and candle went black. The city danced in the dim light of the moon’s reflection on the restless sea.
“Perhaps you could find life somewhere else,” began Theodore, “Move away.”
Anton snorted and shook his head.
“Your vision is so simple. So unfettered by time or consequence,” murmured Anton, emptying his ashes into a small brass tray on the window sill, “This is my life now; this building and these fields. The time for me to pack and travel has long since passed. Another life now would be unthinkable.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But Anton did think. After he showed his guest to the humble fold-out cot on the ground floor, and even after slipping into his own bed for the night, he thought. He thought about different places. He thought about different canvases covered with fantastic, vivid landscapes. He thought about the possibility of a different life, a better life, somewhere far removed from the hollow shell of the lighthouse. He lay awake beneath the heavy covers thinking thoughts that were not only shocking in their complexity, but that shook him with their surprising degree of possibility.
He wasn’t as bound to the lighthouse as he led his guest to believe, but any desire he had ever had to resign from his keeping duties had always been overshadowed by the more frightening potential of change. Time, in its patient fashion, had empowered this fear to such an extent that Anton not only found a different life unthinkable; he had perceived the process as undoable.
However, there he laid, despite all predictable evidences to the contrary, in the midst of a massive recalculation, a serious evaluation of his present and foreseeable future. It is a curious testament of man that in these dire moments, these most heated hours, he will find a place within himself capable of justifying all that he knows as wrong to be right in order to calm the wicked furies of his mind. Whether this demonstration exhibits a weakness of moral fortitude or not is purely subjective. What is truly astounding is an observer’s utter disbelief in the possibility of this inner change, even when provided with the appropriate, contextual motivation. People have always believed in the prospect of change in others, but the ideal that someone can change radically, totally, overnight is considered by most to be complete and total nonsense.
But this is what happened. The lever had been pulled and the gears were set to turn. Anton awoke the following morning even more convinced of his decision than he had been the evening before. Finding the tide to be sufficiently low, the two men followed the winding path down the hill to the now exposed causeway leading over to the island city. The road, while stained with the remnants of its regular underwater environ, was passable and the two men were able to navigate their way across with little difficulty.
The walls of Saint Florian grew before them as they passed the width of the channel. The regular water line had left its impression high above the gate of the city, so dark and thick with algae that the barrier appeared to be a natural growth, sprung from the island in defense of what lay inside. The two men passed through the wide portal with relative ease as it was without a suitable gate door, the necessity for which having never been seen, being that the door was only accessible three times in the calendar year.
The path from the gate led directly to the heart of the city where the daily market had already begun. Anton and Theodore arrived in the midst of a bustling street fair. Customers shuffled from booth to booth as vendors quietly hauled their wares from the proper shops to their street-side stands. Flowers ornamented every stall, either for sale or just for show, accenting every counter with unique form and fragrance. Families traveled in packs, a father in the lead followed closely by a mother clinging tightly to children straining to break free. Young ladies walked hand in hand followed closely by packs of curious boys, each acting out for the girls in hope of a secret, special glance. Playful music tied the scene together, lilting through the air from the curious duo of violin and concertina played by two elderly men at the market’s edge. They sat on short stools facing one another, bobbing and weaving in time with the lighthearted tunes as each played humbly for the other’s enjoyment.
Anton led Theodore to the closest inn to the town center and introduced him to the owner, the best form of accommodation he could provide for the inexperienced traveler. Theodore made his arrangements and, after thanking Anton at great length for all of his kindnesses, hastily fled into the heart of the city, desperate to experience the island culture.
Anton chuckled at the youthful impatience, a bursting energy indicative of so much want that it negates reason. For Anton that time had culminated in a position of careful watch, a place far from home where he was made the sole guard over uncertain maritime orientation. He lived his life with every ounce of energy, harnessing the potential of every moment while desperately searching for the next influential encounter. But the years passed by and what had once been a motivation driven uphill slowly curved into a plateau of acceptable mediocrity. Curiosity turned to acceptance as excitement turned to resignation as ten turned to twenty turned to forty years.
F O R T Y Y E A R S
Anton Sasquara meandered through the winding streets of Saint Florian, his feet mindlessly carrying him in and around the miniature districts. The noonday sun snuck through the open alleys and garden gates, drying the dew from the morning shade and coloring in the shadows left in haste by the departed night. Anton knew the emerging colors well, reveling in their diverse and fantastic abundance. Cherry red tulips leaning out through bright white curtains. Dark green, three-lamp light posts plastered with advertisements in weather-worn beiges and off-whites. Earth brown buildings peacefully pressing against the clear blue sky. The colors had once spoken to him in a clear voice, demanding his attention and adoration, both of which he was eager to supply. However, the dedication had been spent and it seemed that no voice, no matter how clear, could mend the gulf of the man’s desire to his present state of mind.
Anton pressed through the city, retracing his path to the center market en route to the governor’s office. He had prepared the speech he would deliver and ran through the primary talking points in his head. He imagined beginning with his gratuities, to the island and to the governor, and then speaking to the respect he held for his position. He thought of speaking on the value of life and the fleeting nature of time, all framing the ultimate culmination in his formal resignation. He imagined the governor’s response, the desperate plea for a few more years, but he would not budge. He had made his plans. He would walk out of the office and into another life.
As he rounded the corner into the festive market he could see his future more clearly than he had for several decades. He walked with purpose through the crowded street fair, a man made new in the noble charge of seeking out and celebrating beauty, true beauty. The prospect awakened his vision to the world traveling around him. Small children darting across the city street, playfully tagging after one another in celebration of a sunny afternoon. A stoic constable wandering in the middle of a cheerful crowd, less of a guardian than a privileged observer. The smiles and the sunlight and the colors all began to come to life again for the elderly lighthouse man. And it was in that instant, only moments after the miraculous rebirth of an old, imaginative soul, that Anton Sasquara was visited by the most glorious representation of beauty he had ever been witness to.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beauty is not hiding from the world. We expect it to exist and it is in steady supply. What is curious is the lack of people looking for it. There is no secret to its location. It is everywhere and all around; readily accessible for those who are searching for it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The canvas was standing or, rather, leaning against the edge of a booth of like items being sold by an inconspicuous old man, half asleep in his wicker chair. Anton moved slowly closer to the captivating magnificence that had so taken him from his previous pursuit, genuflecting in front of the humbling work. After a moment of silent reverence he leaned closer to inspect the finer elements of technique. The piece was dotted with imperfections which, in their own subtle ways, seemed to add to the wholeness of the product.
The picture spoke to every aspect of the landscape, but remained free of extraneous detail. The shading and the coloring were dynamic without being intrusive. The subject was plaintive yet engaging. Every misplaced dab or faulty stroke communicated a genuine and realized intent. The painting was, in the fullest sense of the word, complete.
Anton stared at the portrait for several minutes, unable to tear himself away from the charming picture. He sat frozen in shock, amazed at the conclusion of his epic quest only moments after it had begun, the sought-after end goal a mere stone’s throw away. The realization rang deeply within him. He would not have to go. There was no longer any purpose or cause. The image had awakened his senses to what had been missing all those many years, the final link to connect his present to his future in a beautiful, unending chain.
Anton wept as he knelt in front of the fresh oil painting, tiny droplets dotting the dusty bricks below. Tears streamed down his smiling face, a natural expression of the body to a tidal wave of relief. His joy was immeasurable.
After taking a moment to regain his composure he grasped the painting by its wooden stretchers and carried it over to the dozing merchant nearby. The seller awoke with a start as Anton rapped his bony knuckle against the wooden table between them.
“Did you paint this?” questioned Anton gruffly.
“Uh, yes. Yes, yes I did. Would you like to, I mean, are you wanting to buy it?” stammered the dazed salesman.
Anton nodded and, after haggling with the owner for several minutes, bought the piece for ten pounds even. As the merchant wrapped up the purchased canvas he began the pitch he would have given were he awake when Anton had arrived.
“So is there anything specific you’re looking for today? I mean, besides this, of course.”
“No,” replied Anton tersely.
“I see,” replied the kindly salesman in his most formal tone.
With the canvas securely wrapped and the currency exchanged the merchant handed the painting to its new owner.
“Would you mind my asking?” queried the former owner as the portrait left his hand, “Why this painting? What does it show you that you can’t see every day?”
Anton stood contemplatively for a moment, surprised with the validity and relevance of the seller’s question. In the end the answer came naturally, as if it had been there all along.
“Because it is beautiful,” replied Anton, “It is my lighthouse.”
The keeper paused for a moment as he looked on the impactful landscape in oil.
“And while it may be an ordinary sight to most here; it is from an angle I have never seen before.”
