After that was the Confession.
“We do not name You, for naming is a presumption, and we would not presume upon the creator of all that was, is, and will be. We do not pray to You, nor ask favors or recognition from You, for requesting such asks You to favor us over others who are also Your creations. Rather we confess that we always risk the sins of pride and presumption and that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we too often strive to arrogate our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our petty plans and arid achievements have meaning beyond those whom we love or over whom we have influence and power. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your nameless magnificence and that all that we are is a gift to be cherished and treasured, and that we must also respect and cherish the gifts of others, in celebration of You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
“In peace and harmony,” we all chorused.
Then came the offertory baskets, followed by Chorister Aknotyn’s ascension to the pulpit for the homily. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” came the reply.
“And it is a good evening, for under the Nameless all evenings are good, even those that seem less than marvelous . . . and we all know that there are many of those . . .”
Aknotyn’s dry aside brought low murmurs of laughter to the congregation.
“The other day a youngster asked me why we do not name the Nameless, and I almost repeated the Confession to him, but I realized that he was asking what really was behind the Confession. While our meeting place, the anomen, means place of no name, in fact we name everything, and so often when we name it, we assume that we know it. The name becomes the identity, and it is always a limited identity. Look at it in this fashion. You have a friend. Let’s call him Fieryn, and we’ll say that he has red hair and a certain lack of patience. Each time that you encounter Fieryn or talk to him or watch him, you build a more complete picture in your mind, and when Fieryn is not around, in effect, to you, that picture is Fieryn. But is the picture really Fieryn? Does it include the time he spends with his crippled cousin, whom you do not know? Does it include the glasses he has spent telling stories to his failing aunt who cannot leave her bed? Or the time he drank too much and kicked a poor simpleton? Yet, by calling up his name, we think we know Fieryn. But do we?
“Using names to excess and thinking that the name is the individual is often called the mark of the Namer, because one of the great sins in life is to accept that a name is all that there is of reality . . .
“Now, if there is so much we do not know about those we call family or friends, how much more is there about the Nameless, who created all that there is, that we cannot know and will never know? . . .”
Chorister Aknotyn went on to describe the magnificence of the Nameless and the unmitigated presumption of mere mortals to offer a name and think that they might know even a fraction of what the Nameless might know or understand. I’d heard similar homilies before, and I couldn’t say that I disagreed. The only thing I might have added, if only in my mind, was the question of whether the Nameless, with all that magnificence, would even have cared what I thought or did.
While the walk from the Anomen D’Este to Brayer Lane and Master Caliostrus’s establishment, even by the winding Bakers’ Lane, was only half the distance I’d walked to get to Father’s, I didn’t even have to do that. Mother had Charlsyn go that way-and she slipped me two silvers as well, when Father wasn’t looking, just before I got out of the coach. So I wasn’t all that chilled by the time I reached my room.
10
755 A.L.
A good portrait reveals what is seen; a great one also
reveals what is not.
I was halfway into the last sitting with Thelya on a far warmer and more pleasant Samedi morning-and the second one in Fevier-when I found myself looking at her eyes again. I’d been worried about them-not the shape or the shadows, but the color of the irises-for the last several sittings. The problem was simple. Her eyes were green, but I was limited to zinc blue-green and verdigris, and the zinc green wasn’t intense enough, and the verdigris was far too fugitive to be used for Thelya’s eyes, even if I used a touch of a clear varnish-glaze.
What I really needed was imagers’ green, but only Master Caliostrus had that, along with the lapis blue, and they were so costly that I’d never see them, not as a journeyman, and certainly not so long as I worked in his studio. The most I’d ever seen were tiny dollops here and there. Still . . . I wouldn’t need all that much. I glanced toward the converted ancient armoire that held his pigments, then shook my head.
If I could just have used the tiniest bit of that brilliant green, and then shaded the eyes from yellow-flecked zinc green to the brighter imagers’ green on the sides of the pupils-right there . . .
I swallowed. I’d done it again. What I’d visualized, seen so clearly in my mind, had appeared on the canvas before me. That was a form of imaging. There was no doubt about it, but exactly what use was imaging that could only make small changes in oil paints on a canvas?
I couldn’t help smiling as I studied the face on the canvas. That little change had made all the difference, bringing her eyes alive, and creating a subtle but clear linkage between all the elements of the portrait.
I finished just before noon, after refining just the hint of an errant curl above her left ear. Then I set down the fine-tipped brush and stepped away from the easel.
“Thank you, Thelya. We’re finished for now, and today was the last sitting. The portrait should be ready in a few days.”
“It isn’t done now?” She bounced off the chair, holding Remsi so tightly that the cat gave a meow of protest.
The governess raised an eyebrow. She never spoke when a gesture would do.
“Some of the background isn’t finished, but I don’t need you to sit for that.”
“Can I see?”
“You can . . . if you really want to.”
She stopped well short of the easel. “You’re saying that I shouldn’t.”
That stopped me. For a pampered nine-year-old to catch that suggested more perception than I’d thought she had. After a moment, I said, “You certainly can, Mistress Thelya, but I’d rather that you be surprised when you see the fully completed portrait.”
“Like presents at Year-Turn?”
“Something like that.”
She nodded. “I can wait.” Her words were more about her than about the portrait, and, for some reason, I thought about Chorister Aknotyn’s homily the week before, about thinking we understood people because we knew their names and had seen them often enough to believe that what we had seen was all that they were.
“I’m sure you can.” I smiled. “It won’t be long. Thank you for being so good at the sittings.” I turned to the governess. “Thank you.”
“The quiet was most restful.” Her lips did not quite smile.
Once Thelya, her governess, and Remsi left, I spent a bit more time just looking at the canvas. I had a few things to finish along the edges, but it was a fine portrait, probably the best I had done.
At that moment, Ostrius stepped into the studio, bringing with him a gust of cold air that suggested the past several days of comparatively mild weather were about to end. Almost as if to say that he didn’t have to follow his father’s rules about keeping the door closed in winter, he stood just inside the studio, holding the door open. “We need a little fresher air in here.”
“Suit yourself,” I replied. “My sitting’s over.”
He closed the door and walked toward my easel, where he stopped and glanced at the portrait. After a moment, he said, “Not bad. You almost got the skin perfect.”