It’s All In The Translation

Writers all know their creations must be proof read. Sometimes the errors found are intentional.

Ian was a portrait painter of some local renown, he’s also crazy. Well, maybe “crazy like a fox.”

In most people’s view “like a fox” wouldn’t be added to the description.

He makes good money in a very small niche. Golfers send him a picture of their favorite hole; possibly the hole where they may have had a lucky shot, a hole in one (chances — 1 in 25,000 rounds); or maybe a double eagle:or an eagle; or where they found a bird’s nest built, complete with eggs.

Any damn reason.

Ian’s clients would send him a picture of the hole and for a mere $3000 he’d oil paint and frame a 5”x 6”replica of the picture; $4500 would get the golfer 10”x 12”

He had a booming business.

Orders backed up for months.

He was pulling in close to a million a year.

And Ian was by no means a bad painter; he’d graduated from Cooper Union with a bachelors degree in fine arts — went on to earn his masters. That in itself will get you to the plate.

Ian Van Gogh

He’d been tagged by a New York Times critic for being the “Portrait Painter to the Stars” in New York 10 or so years ago.

That was before he snapped on the golden handcuffs of the golf hole gig.

My Uncle Shirl died unexpectedly and rather suddenly.

Now on her own, Aunt Betty secured a job heading the volunteers at Presbyterian Hospital in New York City.

Leaving the sad memories of Danbury, Connecticut behind, she rented a co-op in Chelsey and started anew in her early 60s.

She was due to complete her move at the end of the month and start her job shortly after.

I desperately wanted to give her a meaningful house warming gift.

Especially under the circumstances.

I talked to Ian frequently in those days. During one of our conversations, Ian happened to mention that he had 100s of his old paintings stored in his cellar. He’d give them away to auction off for charity from time to time.

He’d really like to sell them, if he could.

My Aunt Betty was an art lover. However, she didn’t have a lot of extra money to indulge this romance.

I thought, maybe the perfect house warming gift for her would be one of Ian’s portraits he had stored in his cellar. I’d seen some and they appeared to be top notch — but what do I know?

I mentioned the idea of buying one of his paintings for my aunt and Ian was all in. He told me he’d give me a deal.

We arrived at a date for me to come over to his place and pick out something.

Man, he DID have quite a few paintings in his cellar. They ALL look pretty good to me; but there was one that sort of stood out.

It was of a teenage boy, dressed in a kilt (he looked suspiciously like Ian but Ian denies any resemblance). The boy was standing in front of a city wall that was graffitied. What drew me to the portrait were the bright colors; the boy’s red hair (coincidently Ian had red hair before it died, falling out soon after) and his black and red kilt.

I also was drawn to the city aspect of the wall that had been graffitied.

It was a perfect size to hang over Betty’s new fireplace in her sizeable living room.

Ian wanted $500 for the painting. I came over in my truck and picked it up to haul over to Betty’s.

She LOVED it; a perfect gift.

I hung it over her fireplace for her.

I must admit, the colors set off her furniture really well.

The first time I saw her truly happy since her husband passed.

I returned to Philly with the glow of having done something positive in my beloved aunt’s life — at a sensitive time.

About a week later I got a call from my cousin Kit, Betty’s son.

“What the fuck ya doing man?” were his words as soon as I picked up the phone.

Needless to say, I was perplexed.

“What da ya mean?” I countered.

“Did you read that graffiti on the wall of the picture you gave my mother?” he asked.

I did but I thought it was gibberish.

He said, “ Didn’t you have phonetics in elementary school?”

I did; but I shouldn’t have to remind him of that, we had the same teachers having gone to the same elementary school.

He said his mother showed him the picture and the first thing he focused on were the words on the wall: Phit, Phifteen and Phuckable.

Hmmm, phonetics — never listened much in school.

Kit mentioned that his mother hadn’t noticed the words on the wall and loved the red headed boy in the kilt.

We decided not to direct her attention to the graffiti.

I called Ian and asked him wether he was aware of what the graffiti meant on the portrait he sold me last week? Did he think it was appropriate for a 60 year old woman who recently lost her husband to hang in her living room?

Ian said that he was aware of it; after all, he’d painted the God damn thing! He claimed that’s why he only charged me $500 instead of $5000 — the phucking cock sucker.

I don’t think Betty ever noticed the words scrawled on the wall and continued to point out the painting of the cute boy in the kilt when showing someone her apartment. Never once did she bring attention to the graffiti to my knowledge.

Kit inherited the painting when his mother died a few years later.

He hung it over his fireplace

And the grafitti was ALL he ever pointed out.