The Memory Painter

Linz laughed. “That’s it? What about your parents? School? Jobs?”


“Parents both live in Boston. Dad’s a chef. Mom’s a shrink. Never went to college. Barely graduated high school.”

She found herself defending him. “You’re quite talented. Were you always into art growing up?”

“Hardly. I couldn’t even hold a paintbrush.”

She was surprised to hear that. “When did you start studying?”

“I’ve never studied.”

It took Linz a second to process what he was saying. “You’re telling me you’ve never taken an art class?”

Bryan looked at her. She could tell he was making an important decision. “When I was thirteen,” he said, “I had a dream I was a painter.” He took a deep breath and added, “After that I could paint.”

She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “So you could paint, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“Like you can speak Greek, just like that.” He snapped his fingers back.

Neither spoke until Bryan broke the silence. “You wanted to know.”

“Does anyone else know about this?”

He shook his head. “No. Just you.”

Linz could feel herself getting emotional and had no idea why. “What was the dream?”

“Not what, who.”

He got up and disappeared behind the screens, and returned a moment later with a portrait of an old man with a turban on his head. “Meet Jan Van Eyck. He was the painter, not me.”

Linz studied the painting and noted the signature at the bottom: Johes De Eyck Me Fecit Ano MCCCC.33.21 Octobris. On the top of the frame he had painted in Greek-looking letters ALC IXH XAN. The inscription almost looked carved.

“What does it say?”

Bryan translated, “Jan Van Eyck made me on October 21, 1433.”

“And what does this mean?” she asked, pointing to the three words at the top.

“‘As I Can.’” Bryan smiled as if remembering something private. “He signed a lot of paintings with that motto.”

“As I can,” Linz murmured, looking at the portrait. There was something mysterious about Jan’s gaze.

“It’s the first painting I ever did. I was upstairs in my room and I felt an episode coming on. When I woke up, this painting was done, staring back at me.”

“You painted that while you were dreaming?”

“I remembered Jan painting it. I must have re-created it as I was reliving the memory.”

“And you just happened to have oil paints lying around?” Linz couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.

Bryan laughed. “My mother had bought me a set of paints and canvas boards earlier that week, after she had read about the power of art therapy. She thought it would help.” Bryan grew quiet. “For a while, I convinced myself that on some kind of subconscious or maternal level, she had known I would need them.” He gave a rueful shake of his head.

“So you’ve been able to paint ever since,” Linz said, still not quite able to wrap her mind around what he was saying.

“Ever since.” Bryan propped the painting against the wall and sat back down. “You’re the first person to see how it all began.” He swirled his own glass of wine around and murmured, “Your turn.”