Portrait of an Artist

He liked sitting in a room with dimmed light, shadows playing on the naked walls and fairy lights hung up around the bed frame. It was like the darkness scared him too much, and the light never brought comfort. The curtains covering every inch of the window so that the faded rays of the sun were not allowed to peek in, candles lit up and placed on a wooden table, filling the space with an aromatic scent of mystery.

The camera was always in his hands or within their reach. It was an extension of his arm, one that probably mattered more than the actual limb. Every time he picked it up, he did it with such gentleness you wished those fingers would touch your skin in the same delicate manner. He held it firmly though, not leaving a slight opportunity for an accident.

It was the storage of his emotions, the ones he was too afraid to talk about and observations that he made in every moment of his life. Maybe that’s why he handled it with such care, making every press of a button a holy ritual. You would have thought each shot was carefully planned, when in fact his art was eminently instinctive and excessively natural to look at. He could transform ordinary situations into intimate moments within seconds, and you would succumb your soul to him without a word of objection.

He was unpredictable. He could disappear for days without saying a single word, just to come back with no explanation but a heart full of warmth and devotion. He would then bury his face in my neck with closed eyes and stay still for a minute or two, or ten, or maybe an hour. He whispered directly into my ear knowing full well how easily I fell in love with words, especially the ones spoken that softly. I hung on to every promise he said, realising that the echo of his voice was about to settle down in my head forever.

December, I remember him sitting on the floor in the corner of my room, camera covering most of his face, lips slightly parted, curved into a faint smile. I was laughing, or maybe asking him questions, or just examining him with a curious look in my eyes — I can’t tell now. Wearing an oversized shirt, my long messy hair put behind my ear, a long necklace hanging loosely from my neck — I wasn’t sure what he saw in me on that moment but I had heard the shuttle going down and felt the sound vibrating in the air.

It was the last time he took a picture of me and I had never gotten a chance to see it.

I can only wonder how he saw me on that evening and the next ones to come; and if he decided to leave in the same moment when I realised there was no life without him.

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Originally posted on my Medium profile.