October 27
I participated in a virtual write-in through the National Portrait Gallery, during which a portrait with a little background story were used as writing prompts. We were allotted 20 minutes to write.
This was the portrait (Andrew Carnegie)
This is what I wrote:
"I've rendered your cheeks ever so slightly rosier than they really are, Mr. Carnegie," she said, cleaning the last of her paintbrushes with turpentine. "I hope you don't mind."
Andrew stared at the portrait of himself. He let out a murmur of a grunt as he noticed the globe.
"I did that so people can see your health and always remember you as such. For posterity."
"I see," said Andrew. "There's no hint of a train or commerce, though."
"Ah, but yes," said the artist, pointing the brush at the image of the scroll. "This here is your first certificate of stock. The one that began building your way out of poverty."
Andrew hinted a smile.
"Does that mean it pleases you?" asked the artist.
He didn't want to let on whether it did or didn't. "Who would know what that is unless you or I tell them?"
"It's a secret, sir." The artist put her oil paints away and began tucking her easel into a case. "As for the train, no one will ever forget to associate the name Carnegie with steel. The world is at your feet. See the globe there?"
Carnegie tapped his foot and nodded. "It's mostly in darkness."
"That's the truth of the real world. If the masses follow your lead, the light will be theirs, enlightenment if you will."
Andrew frowned. He thought perhaps the artist was overdoing it in hopes of fetching a higher price, but he had settled on a price and it was strictly for the commission, not for his ego's gratification. He bent over to inspect the details of the portrait. "My hands seem a bit small, no?"
The artist gasped and then shrugged with a sly smile, as though she'd just thought of a plausible why. "Large hands belong only to greedy men, sir. I rendered your hands thusly to represent you take only what you have justly earned and no more."
Carnegie smiled, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket. "Well done. I must admit I like that, I like it because it's true." He pursed his lips. "You left out my dog."
The artist rubbed at her lapel. "Another portrait with less subtle meaning, perhaps? A family portrait and I'll be happy to include your dog."
Andrew started at the artist's handiwork. The painting isn't bad. Rosy cheeks, enlightenment, the beginnings of wealth creation -- these were all important to him after all. Could he credibly claim to be modest. He wanted to believe so.
