A* Narrative for First Language English: The Portrait by Lily Smith

Video Lesson

A* Narrative for IGCSE First Language English: The Portrait by Lily Smith

A brush stroke. A light stipple. A scrape of my palette knife.

I couldn’t remember how long I’d been hunched over the painting, frantically swiping every brush in my collection across the canvas. I could feel my eyes start to droop downwards, begging for even a wink of sleep as colors on the canvas began to meld together — my back ached for relief, but I had to finish it. Nothing else mattered.

Yet as I laid pitiful glob after glob of pigment down, I realized that I could not get my son’s features right. An artist for 20 years, couldn’t even draw his own son. Had I forgotten what he looked like already? My beautiful Marco — the last family I had left — was gone. Tears start welling in my eyes, my movements became more desperate, the crack of light from the closed window began to fade, and yet nothing could work.

Through my desperate haze, I hadn’t noticed the door to my office opening.

“Dad, it’s been ages, you haven’t left this place in days,” I heard an unwelcome yet familiar voice mutter, and my face immediately hardens. The smell of day-old pizza flooded the room, and against my best wishes, my mouth began to water.

The figure walked into the room and set a plate down by my workbench. My whole body tensed as I heard a sigh from beside me.

“I can’t get your face right.” I croaked, my throat sandpaper gritty.

“Papa.” My heart dropped. This was not my son. “I’m not him anymore. I never was him. You can’t bring him back.”

“Can’t you see that this is wrong, son? Look what you’ve done to yourself.” I spat bitterly, turning towards that thing that my son became. I pinched at his too-long hair, sneered at the powder on his face. “What did I do wrong?”

My son did not answer. He simply pulled up a stool and turned towards my painting. With his fingers, he traced the features on the face of my painting, a solemn look in his eyes.

“You were always my role model, dad.” He gazed at me with an expression I can only describe as admiration. Love. “You painted such beautiful portraits of women in your time. I remember being a young boy, not knowing why I wanted a portrait like them.”

I almost didn’t want to listen, but I couldn’t look away from the person I loved most. “Dad, I know now. This is who I am.” Something about his tone made me wince, like I was in pain. “This makes me so happy, but it hurts to know that I’ve lost you because of it.”

I stared at my child for what seemed like hours, guilt welling up inside me by the second. He embraced me, then — the hug feeling like a weight off my shoulders as I finally hugged my child after I had refused to for so long.

“I love you, dad.”

There and then, I realized that this was who she was. As her father, I had to love her. It was my duty. It became clear, that I’d rather love another version of my child than not have one at all.

~

The sun crept once again from the windows, casting a soft glow on the empty plate sat at the workbench. Small hums escaped myself as I laid the last few brushstrokes on the canvas. The subject’s hair was long, powder on their face, colour on their eyelids, and it was perfect.

“Marissa! It’s finished!” I shouted from my office, and she immediately enters the room with an exuberant smile. Looking at the portrait, tears escaped her eyes, and all I could think about was how beautiful she was. I hadn’t lost a son — I thought as she stared lovingly at the painting — I had gained something much better.